WORKS   OF    FICTION 

BY 

F.  J.  STIMSON 

(J.  S.  of  Dale) 

THE  SENTIMENTAL  CALENDAR,       ...      -      $2.00 

By  the  Major  Two  Passions  and  a  Cardinal  Virtuo 

The  Bells  of  Avalon  Gloriana;  a  Fairy  Story 

Mr.  Pillian  Wraye  In  a  Garret 

The  Seven  Lights  of  Asia  Our  Consul  at  Carlsruhe 

A  First  Love  Letter  A  Tale  Unfolded 

Bill  Shelby  Mrs.  Knollys 

Passages  from  the  Diary  of  a  Hong  Kong  Merchant 

THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY  VANE,      -      -      -      CLOTH,  $1.00 

GUERNDALE,          -        -        *          CLOTH,  $1.25 ;  PAPER,  50  CENTS 

THE  RESIDUARY  LEGATEE,      CLOTH,  $1.00;  PAPER,  35  CENTS 


THE  RESIDUARY  LEGATEE 


Or,  The  Posthumous  Jest  of  tie 
Me  John  Austin 


BY 


F.  J.   STIMSON 

(J.  S.  OF   DALE) 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1888 


COPYRIGHT,  1887,  1888,  BY 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 


TROWS 

PRINTING  AMD  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


SCENE  FIRST— THE  WILL. 

PACK 

I.  ULYSSES  AND  PENELOPE,    ....        3 

II.  THE  PAVILION  BY  THE  LILIES,          .        .      14 

III.  PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA,         ....      24 


SCENE  SECOND— THE  CODICIL. 

I.  AN  IROQUOIS  IN  TROUVILLE,     .        .        .  37 

II.  THESEUS  AND  ARIADNE,    ....  45 

III.  DIDO  AND  ./ENEAS, 56 


17821 39 


vi  Contents. 

SCENE  THIRD— THE  ADMINISTRA- 
TION. 

PAGB 

I.  THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS,         ...      67 

II.  A  LEAD  OF  HEARTS,          ....       72 

III.  PERSEUS  AND  ANDROMEDA,        ...      82 

SCENE  FOURTH— THE  FINAL  AC- 
COUNTS. 

L.  /ENEAS  AND  CAMILLA,        ....      93 
II.  THE  IDYL  OF  ANTEROS,     ....     102 

III.  THE  UNCERTAIN  GLORY  OF  A  NEW  YORK 

GIRL, 109 

IV.  THE  KEEPING  OF  THE  TRYST,          .        .     115 
V.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  COUNTESS,      .        .     121 


Contents.  vti 

SCENE  FIFTH -THE  RESIDUARY 
BEQUEST. 

PACK 

I.  THE  ORDER  OF  DISCHARGE,  .  .  .  129 
II.  A  PRIOR  MORTGAGE,  ....  133 
IIL  THE  POSTHUMOUS  JEST,  .  .  .  .  137 


THE   WILL 


I. 

ULYSSES  AND    PENELOPE. 

ON  the  morning  of  August  i4th,  in  this 
last  summer,  Mr.  Austin  May  alighted  at 
the  little  Cypress  Street  station  of  the  Bos- 
ton &  Albany  Railroad,  and,  accompanied 
only  by  a  swarthy  and  adroit  valet,  and  a 
very  handsome  St.  Bernard  dog,  got  into 
the  somewhat  antiquated  family  "  carryall  " 
which  awaited  him,  and  drove  away.  May 
was  a  stranger  to  the  man  in  charge  of  the 
station,  as  well  as  to  the  wide-awake  trio  of 
boys  who  made  it  a  sort  of  club,  their  ex- 
change of  gossip,  and  pleasure  resort ;  and 
thus  his  arrival  was  unnoticed  and  unrecord- 
ed, though  his  last  absence  had  extended 
over  a  period  of  several  years.  It  was  a 
most  oppressive  day  ;  and  what  few  human 
beings  were  dressed  and  stirring  made  haste 
to  get  beneath  the  dense  foliage,  or  to  plunge 
into  the  numerous  private-paths  and  short- 


4  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

cuts,  with  which  the  suburb  of  Brookline  is 
provided  ;  leaving  the  roads  and  their  dust 
undisturbed,  except  by  the  sedate  progress 
of  the  old  carryall,  which  left  behind  it,  sus- 
pended in  the  air,  an  amazing  quantity  of 
the  same  considering  its  speed,  and  quite 
obscured  the  morning  sun  with  its  golden 
cloud.  Austin  May  might  have  been  an  en- 
tering circus  procession,  and  no  one  would 
have  found  it  out.  Even  the  boys  at  the 
station  were  sluggish,  and  indisposed  to 
"catch  on  "  behind  every  train,  much  less 
to  give  their  particular  attention  to  one  un- 
distinguished stranger,  with  or  without  a 
dog. 

May  lit  a  cigar,  and  the  carryall  and  its 
occupants  lumbered  along  unheeded.  The 
road  was  walled  in  and  roofed  over  by  a 
dense  canopy  of  foliage  borne  by  arching 
American  elms ;  and  through  its  green 
walls,  dense  as  a  lane  in  Jersey,  only  mo- 
mentary glimpses  were  to  be  had  of  shaven 
lawns  and  quiet  country-houses.  When 
they  came  to  a  gate,  with  high  stone  posts, 
topped  by  an  ancient  pair  of  cannon-balls, 
the  carryall  turned  slowly  in.  A  moment 
after  they  had  passed  the  screen  of  border 


Ulysses  and  Penelope.  5 

foliage,  May  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  a 
wide  lawn  and  garden,  open  to  the  sunlight, 
but  rimmed  upon  all  points  of  the  compass 
by  a  distant  hedge  of  trees,  so  that  no  roads, 
houses,  thoroughfares,  or  other  fields,  were 
visible.  In  the  centre  of  this  stood,  with 
much  dignity,  an  elderly  brick  house,  its 
southern  wall  quite  green  with  ivy.  In 
front  of  it  was  a  large  pavilion,  some  hun- 
dred yards  removed,  low  and  stone-built, 
rising  without  apparent  purpose  from  the 
side  of  an  artificial  pool  of  water,  rimmed 
with  rich  bands  of  lilies.  May  looked  anx- 
iously for  the  pavilion,  and,  when  he  saw  it, 
sank  back  in  his  seat  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

The  carryall  stopped  before  a  broad, 
white  marble  step  at  the  front  door  ;  and 
the  Charon  of  the  conveyance,  known  locally 
as  "  the  depot-man,"  having  dumped  the  one 
leather  trunk  upon  the  step,  stood  looking 
at  the  stranger  contemplatively,  as  if  his 
own  duties  i-n  this  world  were  all  fulfilled. 

"  How  much  ? "  said  May. 

"Twenty-five  cents,"  said  the  ddpot-man. 

May  pulled  out  a  half-dollar.  "  No  mat- 
ter about  the  change,"  he  added,  as  the  de- 
pot-man hitched  up  his  vest,  preparatory  to 


6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

fishing   in  his  cavernous    trousers  for   the 
requisite  quarter. 

The  depot-man  changed  his  quid  of  to- 
bacco, and  drove  off  without  a  word,  the 
downward  lines  from  the  corners  of  his 
mouth  a  shade  deeper,  as  if  he  profited  un- 
willingly by  such  unnecessary  prodigality, 
which  aroused  rather  contempt  than  grati- 
tude. May  waited  until  the  carryall  had 
quite  disappeared  in  the  elm-trees,  and  then 
rang  the  bell.  Apparently,  he  expected  no 
prompt  answer  ;  for  he  sat  down  upon  one 
of  the  old  china  garden-seats,  which  flanked 
the  door,  and  rolled  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  rang  again,  louder  ; 
the  unwonted  tinkle  reverberated  through 
the  closed  house,  and  an  imaginative  man, 
putting  his  ear  to  the  key-hole,  might  have 
heard  the  scuffle  of  the  family  ghosts  as 
they  scurried  back  to  their  hiding-places. 
At  last  an  uncertain  step  was  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  after  much  turning  of  keys  and 
rattling  of  chains,  the  door  was  slowly 
opened  by  an  old  woman,  who  blinked  at 
the  flood  of  sudden  light  which  poured  in, 
rebounded,  eddied,  and  at.  last  filled  each 
corner  of  the  fine  old  hall. 


Ulysses  and  Penelope.  7 

"Mrs.  Eastman,  I  suppose?" 

"  That's  my  name,"  said  the  woman,  in  a 
strong  down-east  accent. 

"  I  am  Mr.  May,"  said  he. 

The  woman  glared  at  him  as  before,  and 
did  not  compromise  her  dignity  by  a  court- 
esy. "Mr.  Eastman  got  your  letter,"  said 
she,  "and  I  have  got  your  room  ready. 
Will  you  go  there  now  ?  I  don't  know 
who's  to  carry  up  your  trunk." 

May's  valet  solved  that  difficulty  by 
shouldering  the  leather  receptacle  and  car- 
rying it  up  himself.  The  room  was  large, 
airy,  and  neatly  kept.  A  straw  matting  was 
on  the  floor,  covered  here  and  there  with 
well-worn  rugs ;  and  from  about  the  win- 
dows came  a  twittering  of  birds.  All  in  it 
indicated,  not  a  new  and  modern  house,  but 
the  well-worn  nest  of  a  family  that  had  been 
born,  had  cried,  laughed,  played,  made  love, 
and  died,  in  every  room.  Yet  there  was  no 
evidence  of  recent  occupation  ;  the  room 
was  innocent  of  those  last  touches  which  are 
the  pride  of  the  feminine  housekeeper  ;  cur- 
tains, splashers,  anti- macassars,  were  few  ; 
and  no  twilled,  frilled,  or  pleated  things  in- 
fested the  windows,  and  impeded  the  entry 


8  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

of  the  outer  air.  May  opened  the  door  of 
a  large  closet  ;  it  was  empty,  save  for  a 
broad,  white,  chip  hat  of  prehistoric  fash- 
ion, and  ribbons  of  faded  rose-color  ;  but, 
if  it  had  belonged  to  a  daughter  of  the 
house,  it  was  evident  that  its  owner  was 
either  dead  or  married,  and  her  womanly 
activity  was  exercised  in  other  locuses  and 
focuses.  No  other  manifestation  of  what 
Goethe  (impatiently)  calls  the  "  eternal 
woman  "  was  present ;  and  May's  expression 
almost  approached  to  a  smile  as  he  opened 
the  door  of  the  spacious  bath-room,  and 
noted  the  naked  mantels  and  marble  slabs, 
unencumbered  by  china  dogs,  translated 
vases,  and  other  traps  for  the  unwary.  On 
the  shelf  was  a  noble  pile  of  rough  and 
manly  towels,  and  as  he  turned  the  faucet, 
he  found  that  the  water  was  copious  and 
cold.  From  all  this  you  may  infer  that  Mr. 
Austin  May  was  a  bachelor.  I  have  com- 
mitted myself  to  no  such  statement  as  yet, 
and  May  himself  would  have  been  the  first 
to  term  your  curiosity — at  the  present  stage 
of  your  acquaintance  with  him — an  imperti- 
nence. As  he  turned  away  from  the  bath- 
room the  smile  of  satisfaction  died  away 


Ulysses  and  Penelope.  9 

upon  his  lips.  Mrs.  Eastman  was  still 
standing  at  the  door,  the  incarnation  of  the 
custodian,  in  iron-gray  rigidity  of  dress,  and 
equilateral  triangularity  of  \\h\tefichu. 

"Everything  seems  to  be  all  right,  Mrs. 
Eastman,"  said  he,  graciously.  (Behold  how 
simple  are  the  needs  of  man — give  them 
but  fresh  water,  space,  and  peace,  and  their 
desires  are  filled  ;  while  womankind — are 
otherwise.) 

"Everything  is  all  right,"  broke  in  Mrs. 
Eastman,  like  the  offended  Vestal  deity,  at 
a  statement  implying  contrary  possibilities. 
Then  again  she  congealed. 

May  looked  at  her  more  closely,  with  a 
slight  shade  of  annoyance.  How  was  he  to 
get  rid  of  this  woman  ? 

"You  must  have  had  a  sadly  lonely  life 
here,  Mrs.  Eastman,"  said  he,  by  way  of 
placation.  And  lo  !  the  flood-gates  were 
loosened  and  the  tide  poured  forth.  Who 
ever  could  have  suspected  Mrs.  Eastman 
of  gregarious  instinct  ?  As  well  have  fan- 
cied her  loquacious.  As  Moses's  wand  up- 
on the  rock  of  Horeb,  so  an  adroit  phrase 
addressed  to  womankind. 

"  I  have  not  complained,  Mr.  May ;  and 


io  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

nobody  can  say  that  I  haven't  done  by  you 
as  if  it  were  my  own  house  that  I  was  living 
in,  and  the  water-back  out  of  order  all  the 
time,  and  the  pipes  freezing  all  the  winter ; 
and  Mr.  Eastman,  says  he,  we  must  have  a 
furnace  fire,  and  I  say  no,  it  ain't  of  enough 
account  for  us  two  old  people,  and  so  we 
sit  by  the  kitchen  stove,  and  my  sister,  Mrs. 
Tarbox,  with  her  four  children  and  the  scar- 
let fever,  over  at  Roxbury,  and  nobody  to 
provide  for  'em,  for  John  Tarbox — says  I  to 
Cynthia  when  he  come  up  to  Augusta  from 
the  Provinces  (I  come  from  Augusta,  Maine, 
Mr.  May),  he  ain't  but  a  shiftless  fellow,  you 
mark  my  words,  says  I  ;  and  says  she,  you 
let  me  alone,  Miranda,  and  I'll  do  as  much 
by  you,  s'  she  ;  an'  so  it  turned  out,  an' 
many's  the  time  I've  said  to  Mr.  Eastman, 
Mr.  Eastman,  I  must  go  an'  see  Cynthia,  s's 
I,  for  there  she  is  on  her  back,  with  her 
hands  full  of  children,  an'  no  one  to  do  for 
'em  but  just  John  Tarbox;  an'  s's  he,  Mi- 
randa, it  would  be  tempting  Providence  for 
you  to  go  with  your  rheumatism,  an'  s's  I, 
I  can't  help  that,  Mr.  Eastman  (he's  a  mem- 
ber o'  the  church,  Mr.  Eastman),  I  guess 
Providence  ain't  got  no  more  to  say  about 


Ulysses  and  Penelope.  u 

it  than  my  horse-chestnuts  in  my  dress 
pocket,  an'  I  always  wear  flannel  next  my 
skin  ;  an'  s's  I,  I'd  go,  come  what  may,  but 
for  Mr.  May's  silver,  s's  I  (I  keep  it  under 
my  bed,  Mr.  May,  and  have  slept  upon  it 
every  mortal  night  since  I  took  this  house), 
an'  I  know  I  saw  a  moth  in  the  best  parlor 
last  week,  an'  the  furniture  not  beaten  since 
April ;  an'  so  six  weeks  gone  since  I  saw 
my  sister  ;  an'  since  there's  a  foreigner  in 
the  kitchen,  s'  I  to  Mr.  Eastman,  Mr.  East- 
man  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Eastman,"  interposed 
May,  gently,  "I  had  no  idea  you  thought  it 
necessary  to  stick  so  close  to  the  house. 
Now  I  beg  that  you  will  go  at  once.  My 
servant  will  get  all  I  want  for  dinner.  You 
and  Mr.  Eastman  must  both  go,  and  don't 
think  of  coming  back  before  to-morrow — 
haven't  you  any  other  visits  to  pay  ? " 

Mrs.  Eastman,  who  had  started  at  the 
"  my  dear  Mrs.  Eastman  "  as  if  May  had 
offered  to  kiss  her,  admitted,  ungraciously, 
that  her  husband's  sister  lived  in  Jamaica 
Plain.  But  the  foreign  valet  was,  evidently, 
still  in  her  mind  ;  and,  after  sundry  prog- 
nostications as  to  the  domestic  evils  to  re- 


12  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

suit  from  "  that  man's "  presence  in  the 
kitchen,  she  finally  removed  herself,  with 
some  precipitation,  only  when  May,  in  des- 
peration, began  to  take  off  his  coat.  Left 
to  himself,  May  resumed  his  coat,  drew  a 
chair  to  the  window,  sighed,  and  lit  a  cigar- 
ette. Mrs.  Eastman's  disappearance  was 
followed  by  a  distant  shriek  ;  and  shortly 
afterward  there  was  a  slight  scratchina:  at 

o  o 

the  door.  May  opened  it,  and  the  St.  Ber- 
nard dog  walked  gravely  in  and  stretched 
himself  by  the  chair  ;  a  certain  humorous 
expression  about  his  square  jowl  indicating 
that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  the  shriek  in 
question.  It  was  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
for  Mrs.  Eastman's  nerves.  Fides  was  the 
dog's  name,  and  his  master  patted  his  head 
approvingly. 

May  sat  down  again,  and  his  eye  roamed 
over  the  stretch  of  green  turf,  a  view 
broken  above  by  the  huge  arms  of  button- 
wood,  and  canopies  of  English  elm. 
Shortly  afterward  he  saw  the  valet  emerge 
from  a  side  entrance,  and  step  hastily  across 
the  lawn  into  the  shade  of  a  great  hem- 
lock, where  he  stood,  gesticulating  wildly. 
A  minute  or  two  later  Mrs.  Eastman,  in  an 


Ulysses  and  Penelope.  13 

Indian  shawl  and  purple  bonnet,  appeared 
in  progress  down  the  carriage-road,  limply 
accompanied  by  her  lord  and  master. 
When  she  disappeared,  with  her  husband 
and  a  red  and  roomy  carpet-bag,  behind 
the  avenue  of  elms,  the  sinuous  oriental 
emerged  from  the  hemlock,  and  shook  his 
fist.  Silence  supervened.  The  prospect  of 
peace  emboldened  May  to  light  a  large 
cigar.  The  valet  returned  to  the  house, 
and  no  sound  was  audible  but  the  chirping 
of  the  birds,  the  rustle  of  leaves,  and  the 
dignified  and  heavy  breathing  of  the  hound 
of  St.  Bernard. 


II. 

THE    PAVILION   BY   THE    LILIES. 

As  May  was  knocking  off  the  last  white 
ash  from  his  cabafia,  his  servant  knocked 
softly,  entered,  and  bowed.  Rising,  May, 
followed  by  the  St.  Bernard,  descended  and 
entered  the  dining-room.  Upon  the  walls 
were  six  pictures,  four  of  which  were  por- 
traits of  persons,  and  two  of  indigestible 
fruit.  The  persons  seemed  to  have  been 
eating  the  fruit.  The  portraits  were  all 
Copleys,  and  comprised,  first,  a  gentleman 
in  a  red  coat  and  a  bag-wig  ;  second,  a  young 
lady  with  a  sallow  complexion  and  a  lilac 
satin  dress  cut  so  low  that  only  a  profusion 
of  lace  concealed  her  deficiencies  of  figure  ; 
third,  an  elderly  scholar  with  long  trans- 
parent fingers  and  sinister  expression  ; 
fourth,  a  nice  old  lady  with  a  benignant 
grin.  The  eyes  of  the  old  lady  beamed 


The  Pavilion  by  the  Lilies.          15 

amiably  down  upon  the  table,  where  lay  a 
snowy  cloth  and  a  glorious  breakfast,  con- 
sisting of  a  fish,  a  bird,  a  peach,  and  a  pint 
of  claret.  The  genius  who  had  wrought 
this  miracle  disappeared,  and  May  was  left 
undisturbed. 

The  fish  had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh, 
and  the  bird  had  gone  the  way  of  the  fish, 
and  the  first  glass  of  Leoville  was  awaiting 
translation  to  the  sky  of  human  reveries, 
when  there  was  a  sound  of  carriage-wheels 
upon  the  gravel.  May  started.  The  glass 
of  claret  crashed  untasted  to  the  floor,  and 
its  owner  sprang  upon  his  feet  and  fled  pre- 
cipitately. Just  as  the  door-bell  rang,  he 
escaped  from  the  garden  door  of  the  hall 
and  plunged  into  a  maze  of  shrubbery ; 
with  a  hurried  sign  to  the  silent  servant  as 
he  passed.  Rapidly  and  circuitously,  he 
circled  back  behind  the  hedges  until  a  suc- 
cessful flank  movement  brought  him  to  the 
main  driveway  at  the  point  where  he  re- 
membered Mrs.  Eastman  had  disappeared  ; 
here,  by  a  bold  dash  he  secured  the  front 
lawn  ;  and  a  few  cautious  steps  brought 
him  to  the  side-door  of  the  large,  low  stone 
pavilion  aforementioned.  Drawing  a  brass 


1 6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

key  from  his  pocket,  he  managed  to  turn 
a  grating  lock  and  entered.  The  door 
closed  behind  him  and  was  carefully  bolted 
on  the  inside.  The  interior  was  quite  dark  ; 
but  May  cautiously  felt  his  way  to  one  of 
the  front  windows,  and  opening  the  sash, 
turned  the  slats  of  the  blind  to  a  horizontal 
position.  Through  this  he  peered,  breath- 
less with  his  run.  At  the  front  door  of  the 
house  was  the  same  carryall  that  had 
brought  him  from  the  station  ;  but  its  oc- 
cupants were  not  visible.  May  saw  the  St. 
Bernard  dog  silently  threading  his  way 
through  the  bushes,  his  nose  upon  the 
trail ;  a  minute  later,  and  he  scratched  upon 
the  door  of  the  pavilion. 

"  Hush,"  hissed  May,  angrily. 

The  dog  scratched,  softly.  With  an  im- 
patient imprecation,  May  opened  it ;  the 
dog  had  a  bit  of  paper  in  his  mouth.  May 
snatched  it  eagerly. 

"  Madame  d 'Arrebocques  "  was  written  upon 
it,  in  the  hand  of  Schmidt,  his  valet.  "  Elle 
doit  attendre" 

Madame  d'Arrebocques  ?  May  knew  no 
such  person.  Madame  d'Arrebocques? 
Why  should  she  write  ?  Why  had  she  not 


The  Pavilion  by  the  Lilies.          17 

sent  her  card  ?  Had  Schmidt  spelled  the 
name  right  ?  Ah  !  at  last  he  had  it,  thanks 
to  Mrs.  Eastman's  garrulity.  This  could 
be  no  other  than  Cynthia  Tarbox,  the  ill- 
married  sister  of  Miranda,  his  chatelaine. 
And  ill-mannered  fortune  !  they  had  missed 
each  other  on  the  way.  Mrs.  Eastman  might 
return  at  any  moment.  As  he  pondered, 
the  carryall  moved  slowly  off ;  but  as  it 
passed  the  window,  he  noted  that  it  con- 
tained no  other  figure  than  the  station- 
master.  The  woman,  then,  was  left  be- 
hind. 

May  tore  out  a  card  and  wrote  upon  it,  in 
German,  Sie  muss  fort !  and  handed  it  to 
Fides,  the  dog,  who  trotted  silently  off. 
What  means  Schmidt  used,  May  never 
knew  ;  but  some  ten  minutes  later,  four 
children  came  screaming  down  the  ave- 
nue, running  and  gasping  for  breath,  fol- 
lowed by  a  thin  and  wiry  woman,  robed 
in  a  flapping  whitey-brown  duster,  whose 
haste  and  streaming  bonnet-ribbons  bore 
every  evidence  of  extreme  mental  pertur- 
bation. 

Shortly  afterward  Schmidt  himself  ap- 
peared, in  his  hands  a  glass  and  another 

2 


1 8  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

bottle  of  the  same  claret.  By  a  refinement 
of  delicacy,  the  glass  was  full.  "  Monsieur 
n'a  pas  fini  son  dc'jefiner"  said  he  ;  and  May 
took  the  glass  with  trembling  fingers,  but 
put  it  down  untasted. 

"  Schmidt,"  said  he,  in  French,  "  it  is 
nearly  midday.  You  must  bring  every- 
thing here.  I  dare  not  go  back  to  the 
house." 

The  valet  evinced  no  surprise,  but 
nodded  and  disappeared.  Left  to  himself, 
May  opened  the  shutters  of  several  of  the 
windows  and  looked  out.  The  side  of  the 
pavilion  that  was  farthest  from  the  house 
rose  directly  out  of  the  broad  pond  or  or- 
namental lake  already  referred  to.  This 
was  to  the  west ;  the  northern  was  screened 
by  a  dense  growth  of  pines,  the  southern 
contained  the  entrance  door  before  men- 
tioned, and  the  eastern  fagade  commanded 
the  house,  which  was  some  two  hundred 
yards  distant  across  the  avenue.  May 
looked  out  across  the  water,  which  was  an 
ornamental  piece  fringed  with  reeds  and 
water-flowers.  In  the  centre  of  the  little 
lake  rose  a  low  round  island,  which  had 
a  comfortable  rustic  seat  and  a  soft  and 


The  Pavilion  by  tbe  Lilies.          19 

grassy  surface.  May  pressed  a  small  knob 
in  the  wall  near  the  window,  and  coming 
back  from  it,  took  a  heavy  book  from  one 
of  the  dwarf  bookcases  that  lined  the  large 
room.  The  book  was  a  quarto  edition  of 
Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy  ;"  and 
immediately  afterward  the  adjoining  sec- 
tion of  bookcase  swung  slowly  forward 
from  the  wall,  revealing  a  descending  pas- 
sage-way. Through  this  May  disappeared, 
and  the  bookcase  swung  itself  back  into 
place. 

Some  minutes  later,  Schmidt  entered,  af- 
ter several  knocks,  with  a  large  japanned 
tray.  Upon  this  tray  was  a  small  paper  of 
bromide  of  potassium,  two  boxes  of  cigars, 
strong  and  mild,  a  carafe  of  cognac,  seltzer, 
a  large  opera-glass,  a  powerful  dark  lantern, 
and  a  six-barrelled  silver-mounted  revolver. 
Fides  lay  on  a  mat  on  the  floor  ;  but  his 
master  was  nowhere  visible  in  the  room. 
Schmidt  set  the  tray  upon  the  table  and 
looked  about  him.  Being  alone,  it  must  be 
confessed  that  his  cosmopolitan  face  showed 
traces  of  surprise. 

The  whole  interior  of  the  pavilion  ob- 
viously contained  but  one  room  ;  and  in 


20  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

that  room  Austin  May  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  In  the  centre  was  a  huge  long  cen- 
tre-table of  carven  oak  ;  it  was  covered  with 
dust,  and  upon  it  was  but  one  large  book 
— Burton's  "Anatomy  of  Melancholy."  All 
the  four  walls  were  lined  with  filled  book- 
cases, and,  above  them  were  serried  ranks 
of  engravings,  etchings,  drawings,  but  noth- 
ing that  was  not  in  black  and  white.  Most 
of  these  had  woman  for  a  subject,  but  wom- 
an always  either  in  her  least  agreeable  or 
most  unspiritual  aspect  —  Katherines  with 
Petruchio,  Madame  de  Staels,  Harriet  Mar- 
tineaus,  Manon  Lescauts,  Cressidas,  and 
Marneffes  ;  Messalinas,  Hecubas,  Danae's, 
Judiths,  daughters  of  Herodias  ;  an  engrav- 
ing of  the  Appalachian  Women's  Rights 
Association,  and  a  charcoal  sketch  of  Dau- 
det's  Sappho.  And  of  such  as  were  not  real 
persons  or  historical  characters,  there  was 
but  one  common  characteristic,  namely,  that 
all  were  shamelessly  naked  of  body  and  un- 
spiritual of  face.  The  sole  exception  to  this 
rule  stood  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room 
from  Schmidt ;  it  was  a  full-sized  and  mar- 
vellously perfect  reproduction  of  the  Ve- 
nus of  Milo  ;  having  the  cynical  inscription 


The  Pavilion  by  the  Lilies.          21 

upon  its  pedestal,  "A  woman  without 
rights." 

Schmidt  gave  a  long  low  whistle,  as  he 
went  about  the  room  to  examine  these  en- 
gravings ;  then  he  returned  to  the  centre- 
table,  wholly  at  a  loss.  May  surely  had 
not  left  the  pavilion  ;  but  where  was  he  ? 
He  looked  out  of  the  windows,  and  saw  only 
the  pine-grove,  the  house,  the  lawn,  and  the 
lake.  In  the  centre  of  the  lake  was  a  large 
fountain,  plashing  merrily,  and  shaped  like 
the  coronal  of  some  huge  lily.  As  he 
was  watching  this,  the  fountain  suddenly 
stopped  ;  the  water-petals  wavered  and  fell, 
revealing  a  small  grass  island  that  had  been 
screened  by  the  circlet  of  playing  water. 
A  moment  after,  he  started  at  his  master's 
voice  ;  May  was  immediately  behind  him, 
calmly  putting  a  book  back  in  the  book- 
case. It  was  the  Burton's  "  Anatomy." 

"  You  may  go  now,  Schmidt  ;  I  shall  not 
want  you  until  to-morrow.  You  will  stay 
in  the  under  part  of  the  house  ;  and  not  go 
out  under  any  circumstances,  unless  you 
hear  a  pistol  shot.  When  you  hear  my  pis- 
tol fired  you  will  come  out  rapidly.  If  fired 
twice,  you  will  run  to  the  stable  for  a  horse. 


22  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

If  I  want  you  to  do  anything,  I  will  send 
Fides  with  a  note." 

Schmidt  bowed  his  comprehension  and 
was  about  to  withdraw. 

"  Stop,"  said  May,  "  there  is  one  thing 
more.  You  must  go  to  Brookline  village 
and  hire  a  fast  horse  and  a  buggy,  without 
a  driver  ;  put  the  horse  in  the  stable,  but 
don't  unharness  him,  and  shut  the  door. 
You  may  go."  Schmidt  went. 

Left  once  more  to  himself,  May  examined 
the  stores  that  had  been  left  hy  his  familiar 
upon  the  oaken  table.  The  inspection 
seemed  to  be  satisfactory.  He  then  con- 
sulted his  watch,  and  found  with  a  start  of 
surprise  that  it  was  already  afternoon.  The 
watch  was  an  elaborate  repeater,  giving  the 
hour,  minute,  and  second,  the  signs  of  the 
zodiac,  the  year  of  our  Lord,  and  the  day  of 
the  month.  This  latter  was  August  i4th, 
as  has  been  said  ;  the  time,  after  twelve. 

May's  behavior  upon  this  discovery  was 
precipitate  and  peculiar.  First,  he  arranged 
with  great  care  the  calcium  light  apparatus 
so  that  it  commanded  the  front  stoop  of  the 
house ;  then  he  carefully  closed  all  the 
shutters  of  the  pavilion  save  the  one  toward 


The  Pavilion  by  the  Lilies.          23 

the  house.  By  this  window  he  sat,  peering 
through  the  slats  of  the  blind.  The  sun, 
getting  into  the  west,  shone  full  upon  the 
stone  front  porch  ;  and  May  kept  still  there, 
watching  it,  in  the  silence  of  the  midsum- 
mer afternoon. 


III. 

PAUL  AND  VIRGINIA. 

THUS  fortified  in  a  material  way  against 
the  approach  of  any  enemy,  and  exalted  in 
spirit  above  the  slings  and  arrows  of  out- 
rageous fortune,  the  minutes  seemed  hours 
and  space  and  time  but  mediums  of  his  own 
control.  When  his  first  pipe  was  finished 
he  threw  it  aside  and  walked  openly  out 
upon  the  lawn.  The  very  birds  were  sleepy, 
and  the  park  lay  spellbound  in  the  shimmer 
of  its  own  warm  light.  Austin  took  his 
way  along  the  margin  of  the  pool ;  it  was 
studded  with  white  still  lilies  that  lay  dream- 
ily upon  the  green  water  ;  great  gaudy 
dragon-flies  hung  motionless  upon  the  lily- 
petals,  like  silk-robed  ladies  in  some  spot- 
less marble  hall. 

What  was  it  that  gave  such  interest  to 
the  little  familiar  pool  to  him,  who  had 
smoked  his  cigar  by  the  lotos-pools  of  Yed- 


Paul  and  Virginia.  25 

do's  moats,  or  dreamed  these  same  summer 
hours  away  by  the  fountain  of  the  Court  of 
Lions  in  far  Granada  ?  Well  enough  knew 
Mr.  Austin  May  what  memory  it  was  that 
hung  about  the  place  ;  and  he  smiled  his 
mature  and  mocking  smile  as  he  remem- 
bered his  boyish  love.  Many  times  had 
they  two  wandered  there,  May  Austin  and 
himself,  wandering  together  through  crusty 
Uncle  Austin's  strange  demesne  ;  his  uncle 
Austin,  her  aunt's  husband.  Old  John  Aus- 
tin had  married  for  love  a  poor  and  beauti- 
ful cousin  whose  mother  had  engineered 
the  marriage  against  the  girl's  will  ;  and 
they  had  hated  one  another  very  cordially. 
Too  proud  to  be  divorced,  John  Austin  had 
built  himself  this  strange  pavilion  where 
his  wife  had  promised  she  would  never  go. 
She  kept  her  word  faithfully  ;  and  he  never 
went  into  the  house  without  first  sending 
in  his  card.  They  met  in  company,  and 
with  the  greatest  courtesy,  and  gave  their 
grand  due  dinners  of  sixteen,  each  at  one 
end  of  the  long  table,  with  a  splendid  high 
epergne  between.  Mrs.  Austin  had  taken 
May  Austin  into  her  lonely  bosom,  and  Un- 
cle John  had  had  Austin  May  home  from 


26  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

college,  where  his  bounty  kept  him,  and  had 
given  him  his  taste  for  claret,  and  tried  to 
give  his  knowledge  of  the  world.  And  they 
used  to  sit  there,  he  and  his  uncle,  in  this 
same  pavilion,  smoking,  close  hedged  in 
from  womankind.  And  when  the  old  man 
had  fallen  asleep,  Austin  would  creep  out 
into  the  park,  and  walk  there  with  his 
lovely  cousin  May.  And  on  one  summer 
day,  for  all  the  world  like  this,  he  won  her 
heart,  this  gay  young  Harvard  senior,  all 
among  the  rushes  by  the  lily  pool.  And 
Austin  had  gone  back  into  the  pavilion, 
quaking,  to  tell  his  uncle,  and  found  the 
latter  very  dignified  and  dead,  a  bottle  of 
the  famous  Eclipse  Lafite  close  by  his  el- 
bow. As  with  the  old  French  poet 

"  Hear  ye,  who  are  soon  to  die, 

What  Villon  did  before  he  started — 
He  drank  one  glass  of  Burgundy  ; 
This  he  did  ;  and  then,  departed." 

the  claret  had  not  been  wasted  ;  its  very 
last  glass  had  been  savored  by  its  master 
before  his  spirit  took  flight. 

Austin  May  was  overcome  with  horror. 
He  ran  and  gave  the  alarm  at  the  house, 


Paul  and  Virginia.  27 

and  then  sought  his  cousin  May,  whom  he 
found,  standing  lovely,  in  the  twilight  by 
the  lilies.  He  kissed  her,  preliminarily, 
and  put  his  strong  arm  about  her  slender 
waist ;  then  he  broke  the  news  to  her,  and 
then  he  kissed  her  again,  by  way  of  peror- 
ation. 

Now  May  Austin  was  shocked  ;  but  not 
so  much  so  as  if  she  had  seen  her  uncle 
since  her  aunt's  death,  which  had  happened 
some  three  years  before.  He  had  suffered 
— even  commanded — that  she  should  go  on 
living  at  the  house  ;  but  since  then,  there 
being  no  covenance  requiring  his  attend- 
ance at  the  family  table,  he  had  lived,  eaten, 
and  drunk,  entirely  in  the  pavilion.  Miss 
Austin  had  had  a  fancy  that  she  had  seen 
him  groping  about  in  the  shrubbery  from 
time  to  time,  and  spying  at  her  through  the 
leaves  ;  but  upon  the  only  occasion  when 
she  had  gone  to  see  him — it  was  to  thank 
him  for  some  birthday  present,  distantly 
conveyed — he  had  most  mysteriously  dis- 
appeared. But,  as  if  he  appreciated  her 
visit,  and  were  doing  her  all  the  honor 
possible,  the  fountain  played  its  highest — 
an  almost  unheard-of  tiling  since  Mrs. 


28  Tbe  Residuary  Legatee. 

Austin's  death.  When  she  had  been  alive, 
the  fountain  had  always  played  while  she 
was  walking  in  the  garden.  Uncle  John, 
though  prejudiced,  was  always  courteous. 

But  the  next  memory  was  clearer  yet  to 
Austin  May  ;  and  even  now  a  twinge  of  sad- 
ness, as  he  recalled  it,  spoiled  one  puff  or 
so  of  his  fragrant  cabaua.  For  it  was  by 
this  same  lily  pool,  a  few  days  later.  Uncle 
Austin's  remains  had  been  duly  disposed  of, 
according  to  the  terms  of  the  will,  and  he  and 
pretty  May  had  met  for  the  last  time  ;  the 
last  time  for  a  few  years,  he  had  said  ;  the 
last  time  forever,  as  she  had  feared.  Aus- 
tin, indeed,  had  rebelled  at  this,  and  spoken 
boldly  of  renouncing  everything  ;  but  she 
had  persevered,  and  made  him  see  that  it 
was  best,  at  least  for  a  trial  term  of  years, 
for  him  to  comply  with  his  uncle's  last  be- 
hest. And  so  he  was  going  abroad  ;  and 
she  walked  with  him,  by  the  lily -pool, 
through  the  lawn,  through  the  hedge  to  the 
little  seat  beneath  the  linden  that  had  been 
her  favorite  ;  and  there  they  had  said  good- 
by,  with  kisses  and  tears  ;  and  the  same 
grim  station-master,  messenger  of  fate  !  had 
carried  him  off  in  his  carryall,  appropriate- 


Paul  and  Virginia.  29 

ly  named.  "The  kisses  had  been  very  sweet, 
but  the  tears  had  been  superfluous." 

May  smiled  as  he  thought  of  this,  and, 
lighting  another  cigar,  went  back  of  the  pa- 
vilion. There  he  threw  back  a  drawer  in 
the  carven  oak-table  and  drew  out  the  queer 
old  will.  It  was  nothing  but  a  copy,  bear- 
ing the  lugubrious  skull  and  cinerary  urn 
which  form  the  seal  of  the  Norfolk  County 
probate  court  ;  but  it  was  already  yellow 
with  time,  and  as  May  turned  amusedly  over 
the  old  leaves  the  dust  dropped  from  them 
upon  his  spotless  Poole-built  trousers.  Ah, 
a  good  judge  of  claret  was  old  Uncle  Aus- 
tin ;  a  good  judge  of  claret  and  of  other 
things.  May  looked  at  the  bottle  of  the 
famous  Eclipse  (he  had  not  yet  tasted  it, 
and  there  is  a  certain  worldly  wisdom 
about  claret  very  inspiring  to  those  who 
meditate  a  practical  course  of  action),  and 
began  to  read.  But  his  hand  shook,  as  he 
opened  the  will,  and  any  doctor  seeing  him 
would  have  treated  our  hero  for  nervous 
prostration,  or  sent  him  to  a  faith-healer  at 
the  very  least. 

"  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen.  I,  John 
Austin,  gentleman,  being  of  sound  mind 


}O  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

and  disposing  memory,  and  a  widower,  for 
which  I  am  reverently  thankful"  (it  has 
been  mentioned  that  Mrs.  Austin  died  some 
years  before)  "  do  make  and  declare  this 
my  last  will  and  testament. 

"  My  body  I  consign  to  ashes,  and  direct 
that  it  be  duly  cremated  under  supervision 
of  my  executors  ;  my  soul  I  recommend  to 
him  who  made  it,  provided  that  He  have  not 
already  taken  the  soul  of  Georgiana  Austin 
Austin,  my  late  wife,  under  his  same  super- 
vision, in  which  case  I  reverently  pray  that 
it  be  left  to  my  own  disposition. 

"  I  bequeath  to  my  executors  the  sum  of 
Five  Thousand  Dollars,  and  direct  that  it 
be  expended  in  the  erection  of  a  large  white 
marble  monument  to  my  late  wife,  afore- 
said, said  monument  to  be  designed  after  the 
florid  manner  of  the  later  Gothic,  and  to  be 
placed  upon  my  family  lot  at  Mount  Auburn, 
and  to  bear,  besides  the  name  of  my  late 
wife  aforesaid,  but  one  inscription,  viz.  : 
A  PERFECT  WOMAN. 

"  I  direct  my  executors  to  pay  the  sum  of 
five  hundred  dollars  annually  to  the  niece  of 
my  late  wife  aforesaid,  May  Austin,  until 
she  be  married  ;  and  upon  her  marriage  I 


Paul  and  Virginia,  31 

direct  that  said  sum  be  annually  paid  to  her 
husband,  for  his  sole  use  and  consolation. 

"  I  devise  and  bequeath  my  bin  of  Lafite 
claret,  so-called  Eclipse,  to  my  nephew,  Aus- 
tin May,  together  with  all  my  other  estate, 
real  and  personal,  stocks,  bonds,  moneys, 
goods,  and  chattels,  wherever  the  same  be 
found,  but  subject  only  to  the  following 
condition,  namely  :  I  direct  my  executors 
to  manage  and  invest  all  such  moneys  and 
estate,  save  the  use  of  my  house  in  Brook- 
line,  Massachusetts,  which  I  give  to  my  said 
nephew  directly ;  and  all  the  income,  rents, 
and  profits  of  such  estate  to  pay  over  to  my 
said  nephew  annually  upon  his  sole  receipt ; 
provided,  that  if  he  marry  at  any  time  within 
eleven  years  after  my  death,  or  before  he 
shall  reach  the  age  of  thirty-five,  whichever 
shall  first  occur,  then  and  in  that  case  I  re- 
voke all  the  devises  and  bequests  to  my  said 
nephew  aforesaid  ;  but  direct  my  executors 
to  deliver  such  of  my  Eclipse  claret  as  then 
remains,  to  the  most  prominent  Total  Ab- 
stinence Association  which  shall  then  exist 
in  the  town  of  Boston  ;  and  all  the  rest  and 
residue  of  my  estate  I  devise  and  bequeath 
absolutely  and  in  fee  to  my  residuary  lega- 


j.2  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

tee.      And    I    have   written    the    name    of 

said " 

At  this  point  in  his  reading,  May  heard  a 
woman's  laugh.  It  seemed  to  come  from 
the  shrubbery  close  by.  In  order  to  get 
more  light  for  the  will,  he  had  opened  the 
middle  slats  of  the  blind  toward  the  trees ; 
so  that  it  almost  seemed  possible  for  a  tall 
girl,  standing  close  to  the  pavilion,  to  look 
directly  in.  With  inconceivable  agility, 
May  dropped  to  the  floor,  beneath  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  ran  rapidly  around  the  large 
room  on  his  hands  and  knees,  close  to  the 
wall.  When  beneatli  the  table  where  he 
had  left  his  opera-glass,  he  took  it  up,  and 
adjusting  it  hastily,  stood  upon  his  knees, 
high  enough  to  look  through  the  open  shut- 
ter in  the  window  toward  the  house.  Sure 
enough,  he  had  hardly  got  the  proper  fo- 
cus, when  a  young  girl  emerged  from  the 
shrubbery  and  walked  down  the  road.  But 
she  was  very  young,  only  eighteen  or  so, 
and  though  admirably  pretty,  May  was  con- 
fident that  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 
He  watched  her  until  she  had  disappeared 
in  the  distance  ;  and  then,  rising  to  his  feet, 
returned  to  the  reading  of  the  will.  But 


Paul  and  Virginia.  33 

first  he  altered  the  angle  of  the  slats  of  the 
blind,  so  that  it  would  be  impossible  for 
anyone  standing  outside  to  look  into  the 
room. 

"And  I  have  written  the  name  of  the  said 
residuary  legatee  in  a  sealed  envelope, 
which  I  hereby  incorporate  as  part  of  this 
will  and  append  thereto  ;  and  I  direct  that 
said  envelope  be  not  opened,  but  remain  in 
the  custody  of  my  executors,  or  of  the 
proper  court,  until  my  said  nephew  marry, 
or  reach  the  age  of  thirty-five,  or  until  elev- 
en years  have  elapsed  from  the  date  of  my 
death,  whichever  shall  first  happen  ;  and 
thereupon  my  said  executors  may  open 
the  same  and  deliver  a  copy  thereof  to  my 
said  nephew  ;  and  proceed  to  pay  over  and 
deliver  all  my  estate,  real  and  personal,  to 
my  residuary  legatee  therein  mentioned. 

"And  I  will  explain,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  gaping  and  the  curious,  that  this  I  do 
that  my  nephew  may  profit  by  my  experi- 
ence of  early  marriages.  For  no  man  should 
by  law  be  allowed  to  choose  what  woman 
shall  be  his  wife  until  he  be  arrived  at  the 
age  when  he  may  be  hoped  to  have  suffi- 
cient discretion  not  to  choose  any  woman  at 
3 


34  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

all."  Then  followed  the  appointment  of 
executors  ;  and  that  was  all. 

May  laid  aside  the  scandalous  old  will 
and  began  to  think. 

How  he  had  laughed  at  the  last  clause, 
he  and  May  Austin,  as  they  wandered  by 
the  lily-pond  that  evening !  And  when  she 
had  persuaded  him  not  at  once  to  give  it 
all  up  and  marry  penniless,  he  had  tried  to 
make  the  best  of  it.  If  she  would  not 
marry  him  then,  what  were  eleven  years  ? 
Eleven  years — bah  !  August  14,  1886 — why, 
lie  would  only  be  thirty-three  and  she  twen- 
ty-seven !  But  she  had  refused  to  make  it 
an  engagement,  refused  even  to  write  to 
him  ;  and  the  poor  young  Bachelor  of  Arts 
had  gone  off  to  his  steamer  most  unhappily. 
And  that  farewell  kiss  under  the  lindens  ! 
And  the  letters  he  had  written  back — from 
Liverpool — beseeching  May  Austin  to  re- 
consider her  determination  !  Austin  May 
took  another  cigar  from  the  box,  and  smiled 
pensively. 


THE    CODICIL 


AN  IROQUOIS  IN  TROUVILLE. 

FROM  Liverpool  Austin  May  went  to 
London  ;  from  London  to  Paris ;  from 
Paris  by  the  special  mail  to  Constanti- 
nople ;  thence  to  Athens  and  Alexandria ; 
and  thence  to  Bombay  and  Calcutta  and 
Hong  Kong  ;  and  the  impetus  of  his  flight 
had  almost  carried  him  over  the  Pacific  and 
back  to  America  again,  but  that  he  held 
back  on  the  shore  of  Japan.  -  He  travelled 
in  that  country,  then  in  Thibet  or  in  Tur- 
kestan. Three  years  were  spent  by  him  in 
the  acquisition  of  strange  drugs,  curious 
pipes,  and  embroideries,  wild  songs,  and 
odd  languages.  He  lived  in  Damascus, 
Samarcand,  Morocco,  possibly  in  Timbuc- 
too.  History  records  not  nor  does  May 
Austin,  how  often  he  wrote  to  her.  But 
the  summer  of  1879  saw  him  alight  at  the 
Gare  de  Lyon,  in  Paris.  The  heat  and  sol- 


38  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

itude  of  that  city  were  equally  oppressive, 
and  he  fled  to  the  nearest  coast.  That  even- 
ing he  was  seated,  robed  in  soft  cloth  and 
starched  linen,  on  the  wide  veranda  of  the 
great  Hfitel  des  Rochers  Noirs,  at  Trouville. 

No  one  who  pines  for  outdoor  life,  primi- 
tive conditions,  and  barbarism — and  May 
was  one  of  the  wildest  of  these — but  must 
admit  that  the  trammels,  conventions,  and 
commodities  which  so  annoy  him  are,  after 
all,  the  result  of  infinite  experiments  of  the 
human  race,  conducted  through  all  time  ; 
and  as  such,  presumably,  each  one  was 
deemed  successful  when  made,  and  adopted 
accordingly.  No  question  but  that  men  had 
flannel  shirts  before  starched  linen,  women 
flowing  robes  and  sandals  before  corsets 
and  high-heeled  shoes  ;  and  the  prehistoric 
"  masher "  knocked  down  his  lady-love 
with  a  club  before  he  learned  to  court  her 
with  a  monocle  and  a  bunch  of  unseason- 
able roses.  But  all  these  changes  were,  at 
the  time,  deemed  improvements  ;  and  one 
who  has  lived  three  years  in  Thibet  or 
Crim-Tartary,  and  arrives  suddenly  at 
Trouville,  is  in  a  fair  position  to  judge  im- 
partially. And  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that 


An  Iroquois  in  Trouville.  39 

May  was  conscious  of  a  certain  Capuan 
comfort,  of  an  unmanly,  hot-house  luxury, 
as  he  sat  before  the  little  table  with  his 
carafe  of  ice,  brandy,  and  seltzer,  felt  the 
cool  stiffness  of  his  linen  shirt,  smoked  his 
pressed  regalia,  and  watched  the  ladies  with 
their  crisp  and  colored  dresses  and  their 
neat  and  silken  ankles  as  they  mounted  in 
their  landaus  for  their  evening  drive.  A 
full  string-orchestra  was  stationed  among 
the  electric  lights  near  by,  which  dispensed, 
with  much  verve,  the  light-hearted  rhythms 
of  the  latest  opera  bouffe  ;  and  beyond  the 
planes  and  lindens  shone  the  moonlit  sea,  as 
if  it  also  were  highly  civilized,  and  part  of 
the  decoration  of  the  place.  May  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  cigar  as  who  should  say, 
"  I,  too,  am  a  Parisian  of  the  nineteenth 
century  ;  "  quaffed  a  few  sparkles  from  the 
iced  carafe  and  bottle,  and  pretended  to  be 
interested  in  the  latest  Faits-Paris  of  Figaro. 
He  was  beginning  to  realize  the  delights  of 
youth  and  riches  and  free  travel  ;  he  had 
been  nothing  but  a  school-boy  in  America, 
and  a  sort  of  wild  man  since. 

And  as  he  so  sat,  there  came  to  a  table 
next  him  two  people,  and  sat  down.     One 


40  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

was  a  middle-aged  man,  with  an  iron-gray 
imperial,  a  tight  white  waistcoat,  and  the 
rosette  of  the  legion  of  honor  at  his  button- 
hole. The  other  was  the  most  beautiful 
woman  he  had  ever  seen.  She  was  dressed 
in  the  most  delicate  and  languorous  cloud 
of  violet  and  gray,  strengthened  here  and 
there  by  black  lace  ;  no  ribbon,  jewel,  or 
flower  was  on  her  lustrous  black  hair,  or 
about  the  soft  and  creamy  neck  ;  and  she 
was  evidently  much  absorbed  in  what  her 
companion  was  saying,  for  May  could  see 
that  she  clinched  her  fan  in  her  hand  that 
was  beneath  the  table  until  the  delicate 
ivory  broke.  They  talked  very  rapidly,  in 
French  ;  but  May,  whose  acquaintance  with 
unknown  oriental  dialects  was  so  manifold 
and  various,  knew  hardly  French  enough 
"  to  last  him  over  night."  And  it  is  of  es- 
pecial importance  that  one's  French  should 
last  over  night. 

Whatever  they  were  saying,  they  were 
reiterating  it  with  continually  increasing 
force.  The  man  in  the  tight  frock-coat  be- 
gan hissing  it  between  his  pointed  teeth, 
and  the  pretty  woman  crushed  the  last 
fragment  of  the  fan  to  ivory  slivers  on  the 


An  Iroquois  in  Trouville.  41 

floor.  At  last,  the  gentleman  rose,  and 
with  a  fardieu  which  even  May's  untrained 
ear  could  recognize,  upset  a  champagne 
glass,  and  strode  hastily  away ;  the  lady 
eyed  him  until  he  disappeared,  and  then 
drooped  her  long  lashes,  and  hid  her  eyes  in 
her  pretty  hand.  Her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
convulsively,  and  May's  chivalric  heart  beat 
sympathetically  in  the  same  time.  Sudden- 
ly her  deep  eyes  opened,  and  opened  full  on 
Austin  May's. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  in  English,  "  you  are  a 
gentleman — save  me  !  "  Save  her  ?  Aye, 
Austin  May  would  have  saved  her  from  the 
devil  or  the  deep  sea,  and  with  no  thought 
of  salvage.  All  he  said  was,  "  Why,  cer- 
tainly." It  afterward  occurred  to  him  that 
he  should  have  said,  "  Pray,  command  me, 
madam."  But  this  seemed  to  satisfy  her, 
for  she  unbosomed  herself  directly. 

"  I  know  I  may  trust  an  American,"  said 
she.  "Listen — I  will  confide  to  you  my 
true  name.  That  man — that  mouchard — 
with  whom  you  saw  me,  sinks  I  am  ze 
Comtesse  Polacca  de  Valska.  Well,  I  am 
ze  Comtesse  Polacca  de  Valska.  Now  you 
know  all." 


42  The  Residuary  Legatee, 

Unfortunately,  Austin  May  knew  very 
little.  But  evidently  the  Comtesse  Polacca 
de  Valska  was  a  personage  of  European 
reputation.  He  bowed. 

"What  can  I  do?"  said  he,  earnestly. 
"  Madam  de  Valska  has  but  to  command." 
(This  was  better.) 

"  Hist !  "  said  she,  mysteriously.  "  Po- 
lacca de  Valska — never  mention  ze  name. 
Eet  ees  a  spell,  in  Poland  ;  even  now  my 
noble  Polacco  languishes  in  Siberia  ;  but  in 
France,  in  Russia — eet  ees  a  doom.  Say 
zat  I — say  zat  I  am  your  compatriot — Mrs. 
Walkers — anysing."  And  the  nerve  which 
the  unhappy  countess  had  shown  through- 
out the  interview  suddenly  collapsed.  She 
burst  into  tears.  As  she  dissolved,  the 
American  congealed,  all  the  blue  blood  of 
Boston  rigid  in  his  veins.  When  the  little 
Frenchman  appeared,  May  offered  his  arm 
to  the  countess  ;  and  together  they  swept 
proudly  to  the  door  of  the  hotel. 

"  Arreiez"  cried  the  Frenchman.  "  Con- 
naissez-vous — do  you  know,  sare,  who  it  is  ? " 

"It  is  my  friend — my  friend,  Mrs.  Peter 
Faneuil,  of  Boston,"  said  May,  with  a  readi- 
ness that  charmed  him  at  the  time. 


An  Iroquois  in  Troiwille.  43 


"  Mais,  monsieur " 

"  Do  you  dare,  sir,  to " 

May  glared  at  him  for  a  moment,  and  the 
latter  recoiled,  like  any  Frenchman,  before 
his  Anglo-Saxon  attitude.  They  entered 
the  hall  of  the  hotel ;  the  countess  pressed 
his  arm  convulsively  in  her  gratitude,  her 
heart  too  full  for  words.  "  Merci,  chevalier" 
said  she,  simply.  May's  heart  bounded  at 
the  compliment,  and  with  satisfaction  that 
he  understood  her  French.  "  I  have  a 
carriage  here,"  said  she  ;  and  they  found 
the  elegant  landau  still  at  the  door. 

"  Where  shall  we  go  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you  later,"  said  she. 

May  got  in,  and  a  footman  closed  the 
door  of  the  carriage.  The  liveried  coach- 
man whipped  up  the  horses,  and  the  pair 
rolled  forth  into  the  darkness  of  the  sum- 
mer night. 

At  this  point  in  his  recollections,  May 
looked  at  his  glass  of  claret  and  re-lit  his 
cigar  ;  and  though  he  did  not  know  it, 
this  was  precisely  the  course  of  action  that 
had  been  adopted  at  the  time  by  the  French- 
man with  the  rosette.  He  drew  his  chair 
up  to  the  table  where  the  countess  had 


44  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

been  sitting,  with  a  slight  shrug  of  his  pad- 
ded shoulders,  and  more  imperturbability 
of  manner  than  would  have  nattered  the  val- 
iant defender  of  oppressed  beauty,  had  he 
been  there  to  see  it. 

But  at  this  period  May  was  whirling 
along  in  the  countess's  carriage,  through 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  close  by  the 
sea-beach  and  the  pale  shining  of  the  long, 
slow  surf. 


II. 

THESEUS    AND    ARIADNE. 

THE  next  morning  May  rose  after  a  sleep- 
less night,  and  wandered  pensively  along 
the  beach.  His  head  was  full  of  the  Com- 
tesse  Polacca  de  Valska ;  perhaps  a  drop 
or  two  of  that  charming  personage  had 
brimmed  over  from  his  head  into  his  heart. 
Their  romantic  drive  had  ended  in  no  more 
romantic  a  locality  than  the  railroad  station  ; 
there  he  had  parted  from  her,  perhaps  for- 
ever. For  she  had  assured  him  that  after 
her  meeting  with  the  resetted  Frenchman 
the  air  of  Trouville  would  not  be  good  for 
her,  and  she  had  taken  the  night  mail  for 
Paris.  Her  maid  was  to  follow  on  the  next 
day  with  luggage.  As  soon  as  she  was 
safely  established,  and  had,  at  least  tempo- 
rarily, thrown  the  enemies  of  her  unhappy 
country  off  her  track,  she  was  to  let  May 
(her  deliverer,  as  she  entitled  him)  know, 


46  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

and  he  could  see  her  again.  But,  alas  !  as 
she  tearfully  remarked,  that  might  never 
be.  The  French  republic  was  now  seeking 
to  curry  favor  with  the  despotism  of  the 
Czar,  and  even  Prince  Obstropski  had  had 
to  leave  Paris  for  Geneva.  Austin  wanted 
to  kiss  her  hand  as  she  departed,  but  feared 
lest  this  trivial  homage  should  jar  upon  a 
heroine  like  her.  The  bell  rang,  the  guard 
cried  out  ;  one  last  glance  of  her  dark  eyes, 
and  all  was  over.  She  was  gone,  and  May 
felt  that  perhaps  the  most  romantic  episode 
of  his  life  was  ended. 

He  went  back  to  the  hotel,  but,  unfort- 
unately, none  of  the  famous  Eclipse  claret 
was  at  hand.  So  he  contented  himself  with 
brandy  and  soda.  Visions  of  nihilistic  fair 
ones,  of  Polish  patriots  and  Italia  irredenta 
kept  him  wakeful  through  the  night.  For 
the  Comtesse  had  told  him  of  her  Italian 
descent,  of  her  alliance  with  the  great  pa- 
triot Milanese  house,  the  Castiglioni  del 
Cascadegli.  .  .  .  And  the  Count  Po- 
lacco  de  Valski  was  immured  for  life  in  the 
Siberian  mines.  .  .  .  Poor  devil !  May 
cut  another  cigar,  and  reflected  upon  the 
Count's  unhappy  condition. 


Theseus  and  Ariadne.  47 

In  a  few  days  he  received  a  letter  from 
the  countess.  It  was  a  mere  line,  incident- 
ally telling  him  that  she  had  not  established 
herself  at  Paris,  but  at  Baden-Baden  ;  but 
it  was  principally  filled  with  pretty  thanks 
for  his  "  heroic  chivalry."  The  expression 
had  seemed  a  trifle  too  strong  at  the  time, 
even  to  Austin  May. 

But  when  he  arrived  at  Baden-Baden, 
and  saw  how  charming  the  countess  was  in 
her  now  elaborate  entourage,  he  made  allow- 
ances. Man  is  generous  by  nature,  espe- 
cially to  beautiful  heroines  with  husbands  in 
Siberian  mines.  May  thought  of  the  hap- 
less Polacco  de  Valski  as  turning  out  poly- 
form  lead-pencils  by  the  ribboned  bunch, 
and  marking  them  BBBB,  and  then,  alter- 
nately, HHHH.  May  had  been  much  exer- 
cised in  mind  how  to  explain  his  sudden 
trip  to  Baden-Baden,  and  had  devised  many 
plausible  reasons  for  going,  all  of  which 
proved  superfluous.  The  countess  did  not 
seem  in  the  least  surprised.  He  found  her 
weeping  over  a  letter.  "  See,"  said  she,  "  it 
is  from  Serge." 

"The  d—         Really  ?  "  said  May. 

The  countess  folded  the  letter,  kissed  it, 


48  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

and  replaced  it  in  her  bosom.  This  was  an 
extremely  embarrassing  proceeding  to  May, 
and  he  kept  some  time  silent.  With  his 
Anglo-Saxon  awkwardness  at  social  com- 
edy, he  thought  that  Polacco  might  as  well 
be  kept  out  of  the  case. 

"  Shall  we  go  for  a  drive  ?  "  said  she,  at 
last. 

"  Delighted,"  said  Austin  May. 

The  drives  about  Baden-Baden  are 
charming.  You  wind  for  miles  upon  the 
brows  of  castle-crowned  hills,  overhanging 
the  gay  little  valley  ;  and  then  you  plunge 
into  the  ancient  gloom  of  the  Black  Forest, 
and  the  eerie  pines,  and  a  delicious  shiver 
of  wildness  and  solitude,  all  the  time  with 
the  feeling  that  the  Kursaal  and  its  band 
are  close  at  hand,  should  the  silence  grow 
oppressive.  There,  if  your  heart  do  trouble 
you,  you  can  look  at  pretty  women  ;  and,  if 
the  eternal  verities  beset  your  spirit,  gamble 
for  napoleons. 

The  countess  drove  two  little  cream-col- 
ored ponies,  and  encouraged  May  to  smoke 

his  cigarette  most  charmingly 

Bah !  why  go  on  with  it  ?  Even  now,  over 
the  Eclipse  claret,  May  could  not  but  admit 


Theseus  and  Ariadne.  49 

/hat  he  had  spent  in  Baden-Baden  three  of 
the  most  charming  weeks  of  his  life.  He 
would  not  mind  passing  three  such  weeks 
again,  could  he  be  sure  they  would  be  just 
three  such  weeks,  and  that  they  would  end 
•at  the  same  time.  But,  que diable !  because 
the  play  is  amusing,  we  do  not  wish  to  stay 
in  the  theatre  forever.  And  May  nervously 
glanced  at  the  window,  as  he  thought  he 
heard  the  sound  of  carriage-wheels  again. 
He  had  smoked  too  much  strong  tobacco, 
probably;  but,  after  all,  it  was  even  now 
only  the  middle  of  the  afternoon — not  sun- 
set, or  near  it.  He  might  have  to  come  to 
stronger  drugs  than  tobacco,  to  stronger 
deeds  than  tobacco-smoke,  ere  the  evening 
was  over.  Hence  that  arsenal  with  which 
he  had  provided  himself. 

Well,  to  cut  it  short,  he  fell  in  love  with 
her.  Of  course  he  did.  He  adored  her. 
Possible  !  He  wanted  to  marry  her.  This 
seemed  impossible  ;  but  he  had  most  cer- 
tainly said  so.  He  was  barely  twenty-five, 
and  she — well,  she  was  older  than  he  was. 
And  she  had  a  husband  in  the  Siberian 
mines.  As  May  looked  back  upon  it,  this 
seemed  her  only  advantage.  But,  after  all, 
4 


50  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

it  was  her  patriotism  that  first  attracted  him 
— her  heroism,  her  devotion  to  her  unhap- 
py cause,  or  causes.  Italia  irredenta  !  Po- 
land !  Nihilism  !  For  May  was  not  quite 
clear  which  one  or  more  of  these  was  chief 
in  her  mind  ;  and  nihilism  was  a  new  word 
then,  but  it  sounded  dangerous  and  at- 
tractive. Could  he  not  be  her  chevalier, 
her  lieutenant,  her  esquire?  It  was  no 
more  than  Byron  had  done  for  Greece, 
after  all.  He  was  free,  independent  (for 
the  next  eight  years) — broken-hearted,  he 
was  going  to  add,  but  stopped.  After  all, 
May  Austin  had  not  refused  to  marry  him  ; 
and  three  of  the  eleven  years  were  gone. 
At  all  events,  there  was  nothing  to  prevent 
his  attaching  himself  to  a  forlorn  hope,  if 
he  chose.  Eight  years  of  chances  were  in 
his  favor  ;  and  at  the  worst — if  neither  May 
Austin  got  married,  nor  Polacco  died — he 
could  make  a  rescue  of  the  husband  from 
Siberia  and  do  the  BB  pencils  himself.  He 
lay  awake  many  nights  thinking  of  these 
things,  and  at  last  he  was  emboldened  to 
speak  of  them  to  her. 

How  well  he  remembered  the  day  he  did 
so!    The    day — but    no,   it    was    evening. 


Theseus  and  Ariadne.  51 

They  had  driven  out  after  dinner,  (did  any 
man  ever  propose  before  breakfast  ?)  and 
the  scene  was  a  moonlit  glade  in  the  Black 
Forest.  The  two  ponies  stood  motionless  ; 
but  their  fair  owner  was  much  moved  as 
he  poured  into  her  delicate  ear  his  desires 
and  devotions.  It  was  so  noble  of  him,  she 
said,  and  was  moved  to  tears.  And  then 
his  devotion  to  her  unhappy  country  !  and 
she  wiped  away  another  tear  for  Poland  or 
Italia  irredenta.  How  she  wished  Serge 
could  have  met  him,  and  could  know  of 
this !  And  she  wiped  away  another  tear 
for  Serge.  But  no,  my  noble  American — 
noble  citizen  of  a  free  country  !  It  could 
never  be.  Poland  and  she  must  bear  their 
woes  alone.  They  could  never  consent  to 
drag  down  a  brave  young  Bostonian  in  their 
wreck.  And  then,  how  could  she  ever  re- 
ward him  ?  With  her  friendship,  said  Aus- 
tin. But  the  Comtesse  seemed  to  think 
her  friendship  would  be  inadequate. 

The  scene  was  becoming  somewhat  op- 
pressive ;  and  May,  at  least,  was  conscious 
of  a  certain  difficulty  in  providing  for  it  a 
proper  termination.  In  the  excitement  of 
the  occasion,  he  had  felt  emboldened  to 


52  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

take  one  of  her  hands,  which  he  still  re- 
tained ;  the  other  was  holding  the  reins  of 
the  two  cream-colored  ponies.  He  could 
hardly  simply  drop  it — the  hand  and  the 
conversation — without  more  ;  and  yet  what 
suitable  catastrophe  could  there  be  for  the 
situation  ?  Might  he  kiss  it,  and  cut  the 
conversation  ?  It  were  a  mere  act  of  cour- 
tesy, no  breach  of  respect  to  the  absent 
Serge.  As  a  boy  of  twenty-two  he  had  nev- 
er dared  ;  but  as  a  man  of  twenty-five 

She  did  not  seem  in  the  least  surprised. 
Possibly  she  had  thought  him  older  than 
twenty-five.  But  May,  after  that  little  cere- 
mony, had  dropped  the  hand  most  unmis- 
takably ;  and  she  turned  the  ponies'  heads 
away.  May  gave  a  last  look  to  the  forest- 
glade,  as  they  drove  out  from  it,  and  re- 
flected that  the  place  would  be  impressed 
upon  his  memory  forever.  It  was  really  as- 
tonishing the  number  of  places  that  were  to 
be  impressed  upon  his  memory  forever ! 

A  restless  week  followed.  He  saw  the 
Countess  de  Valska  every  day  ;  but  there 
was  something  uncomfortable  in  their  re- 
lations— a  certain  savor  of  an  unaccepted 
sacrifice,  of  an  offering  burned  in  vain. 


Theseus  and  Ariadne.  53 

The  countess  would  not  let  him  seek  the 
Austrian  foe  on  her  own  behalf,  nor  yet  be- 
dew the  soil  of  Poland  with  his  blood  ;  and 
it  was  very  difficult  to  say  what  he  was  to 
do  for  her  in  Baden-Baden,  or,  for  matter 
of  that,  what  the  noble  Polacco  de  Valski 
could  do  in  Siberia.  Poor  Serge  ! 

Yes,  poor  Serge  !  On  the  eighth  day, 
Austin  May,  calling  on  the  countess,  found 
her  in  a  lovely  neglige,  dissolved  in  tears. 
(He  had  been  refused  her  door,  at  first,  but 
finally,  after  a  little  pressing,  had  been  ad- 
mitted.) The  countess  did  not  look  up 
when  he  entered  ;  and  Austin  stood  there, 
twisting  his  hat  in  sympathy,  and  looking 
at  her.  Suddenly  she  lifted  her  head,  and 
transfixed  his  blue  eyes  with  her  dewy  black 
ones. 

"  Dead  !  "  said  she. 

"What?"  responded  May,  anxiously. 
"  Poland  ?  Ital " 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried.     "  Serge — Serge  !" 

"  Your  husband  ?  "  cried  he — "the  Count 
Polacco " 

The  countess  dropped  her  lovely  head  in 
a  shower  of  tears,  as  when  a  thick-leaved 
tree  is  shaken  by  the  wind,  just  after  rain. 


54  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

"  He  has  been  dead  a  year  and  a  half,"  she 
moaned. 

"  A  year  and  a  half  ?" 

"  Nineteen  months.  He  died  on  the  23d 
of  February,  1877 — three  weeks  after  the 
last  letter  that  I  ever  got  from  him." 

"  But  how — but  how  did  you  never  know  ? " 
said  May,  wildly. 

"Was  it  not  cruel?  The  despotism  of 
the  White  Czar !  Sometimes  they  would 
keep  his  letters  for  a  year,  sometimes  they 
would  let  them  come  directly.  They  would 
not  let  me  know  for  fear  that  I — ah,  God  ! " 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  sweep  of  her 
long  robe,  and  shook  her  jewelled  finger  at 
the  chandelier. 

"Can  you  blame  us  that  we  kill  and  die 
for  such  a  despotism,  such  a  tyranny,  as 
that  ?"  Then  suddenly,  as  she  crossed  by  a 
sofa,  she  straightened  up  to  her  full  height, 
like  a  wave  cresting,  poised  a  brief  second, 
then  fell  in  a  heap — a  graceful  heap — her 
head  resting  on  the  sofa  in  her  hands. 

Then  the  young  man  had  to  seek,  not  to 
console  her,  but  to  calm  her,  to  lift  her  from 
the  floor,  to  bring  her  ice-water,  a  fan,  a 
feather,  pour  oil  and  salt  upon  the  wound, 


Theseus  and  Ariadne.  55 

toilet-vinegar,  or  other  salads.  May  never 
knew  exactly  what  he  did  ;  but  it  was  like 
consoling  an  equinoctial  gale.  Hardly  had 
she  got  fairly  calm,  and  sobbing  comforta- 
bly, and  sitting  in  a  chair,  and  he  beside 
her — and  he  remembered  patting  her 
clasped  hands,  as  one  does  a  spoiled  child's 
— when  she  would  dash  upright,  upsetting, 
the  chair,  and  swear  her  vengeance  on  the 
cruel  Czar.  .  .  .  And  at  this  point  in  his 
reminiscences  May  winced  a  little  ;  for  he 
had  by  no  means  a  distinct  recollection  that 
he  had  not  sworn  his  vengeance  on  the  Czar 
with  hers.  And,  when  you  come  to  think 
of  it,  the  Czar's  injuries  to  Mr.  May  cried 
not  as  yet  for  deeds  of  blood. 


III. 

DIDO  AND  AENEAS. 

MAY  repeated  his  visit  of  condolence  ev- 
ery day  for  several  weeks.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  the  season  at  Baden-Baden  was 
drawing  to  a  close,  and  it  became  necessary 
that  the  countess  should  betake  herself  and 
her  sorrowing  heart  to  some  other  refuge. 
May  knew  this,  and  it  troubled  him. 

For  he  now  felt  that  he  not  only  admired 
Mine,  de  Valska  as  a  patriot,  but  that  he 
loved  her  as  an  exceedingly  beautiful  and 
fascinating  woman.  Surely,  here  was  the 
heroine  of  his  youthful  dreams — a  life  that 
were  a  poet's  ideal. 

To  link  himself  with  her  and  her  noble 
aims,  to  be  a  Byron  without  the  loneliness, 
to  combine  fame  in  future  history  with  pres- 
ent domestic  bliss — what  a  career ! 

He  loved  the  countess,  he  adored  her; 
and  he  fancied  that  she  deigned  to  be  not 


Dido  and  SEmas.  57 

indifferent  to  his  devotion,  to  his  sympathy. 
But  —  there  was  the  shadow  of  the  late 
count. 

And  the  countess  seemed  much  broken 
by  his  death.  True,  she  no  longer  gave 
way  to  wild  bursts  of  passion  ;  she  never 
wept ;  in  fact,  in  Austin's  presence,  she  rare- 
ly mentioned  him.  But  there  was  a  sad- 
ness, a  weak  and  lonely  way  about  her,  as 
if  she  could  not  live  without  her  Serge's 
protecting  arm.  It  must  have  been  a  moral 
support,  as  he  could  have  done  but  little 
from  his  Siberian  mine  ;  but,  whereas  she 
used  to  be  brave,  enterprising,  facing  the 
world  alone,  now  she  seemed  helpless,  con- 
fiding, less  heroic,  perhaps,  but  still  more 
womanly.  Austin  only  loved  her  the  more 
for  that.  And  it  emboldened  him  a  little. 
After  all,  her  husband  had  been  dead  a  year 
and  a  half,  though  she  had  only  known  of 
it  a  few  weeks.  He  determined  to  speak. 
Why  should  his  life's  happiness — possibly 
hers — be  wrecked  upon  a  mere  scruple  of 
etiquette  ? 

He  took  his  opportunity,  one  day,  when 
she  spoke  of  Italy.  (Now,  that  the  count  was 
dead,  she  seemed  to  think  less  of  unhappy 


$8  The  Residttary  Legatee. 

Poland,  and  more  of  unredeemed  Italy  ;  as 
was  natural,  she  being  a  Cascadegli.)  He 
took  her  hands  at  the  same  time,  and 
begged  that  she  would  redeem  him  with 
Italy.  His  life,  his  fortune,  were  at  her  ser- 
vice, should  she  but  give  him  the  right  to 
protect  her,  and  fight  her  battles  for  her  al- 
ways. "I  know,"  he  added  earnestly,  "how 
your  heart  still  bleeds  for  your  noble  hus- 
band. But  your  duty  is  to  your  country, 
to  yourself.  And  remember,  though  you 
heard  of  it  but  yesterday,  the  Count  Polacco 
has  been  dead  a  year  and  a  half." 

"Nineteen  months,"  sighed  the  countess, 
with  a  sob,  going  him  four  weeks  better. 
And  before  he  left  the  room  they  were  en- 
gaged. He  did  not  go  to  bed  that  night  ; 
but  wandered  in  the  moonlight,  treading  as 
on  clouds.  Favored  young  man  ! 

In  the  morning,  he  noticed  with  delight 
that  she  had  laid  aside  her  long  crape  veil. 
Already,  said  she,  her  country  called  for 
her  ;  she  must  recommence  her  labors,  and 
the  deep  mourning  would  attract  too  much 
notice.  May  had  vaguely  fancied  she  would 
start  at  once  for  Milan  or  Warsaw,  and 
after  a  few  months'  delay  he  would  meet 


Dido  and  ALneas.  59 

her,  and  they  would  have  a  quiet  marriage 
ceremony.  But  she  explained  to  him  that 
the  true  arena  of  her  labors  was  in  Paris. 
Here  was  the  focus  of  conspiracies  ;  here 
she  must  live  and  have  a  salon,  and  call  to- 
gether her  devoted  countrymen.  Here  she 
would  need  his  protection,  and,  with  his 
American  passport,  he  could  safely  visit  her 
oppressed  fatherland,  when  events  required 
action  on  the  spot. 

Obviously,  as  he  recognized  with  joy, 
this  plan  made  it  necessary  for  them  to  be 
married  immediately.  But  then  he  must 
speak  to  her  of  his  uncle's  will.  Not  that 
it  mattered  much  ;  he  was  quite  ready  to 
renounce  fortune,  even  life,  for  her  ;  but 
she  must  know  that  they  would  not  be 
rich.  It  was  a  mere  formality  ;  but  it  must 
be  done.  So  he  told  her  of  the  curious 
will ;  and  how,  if  he  married  before  August 
the  fourteenth,  1886,  he  was  to  lose  all  his 
uncle's  property,  even  to  what  remained  of 
the  celebrated  Eclipse  claret.  But  then, 
what  was  money  ?  Particularly  to  them, 
who  had  no  other  aims  than  love  and  patri- 
otism ;  both  commodities  not  to  be  bought, 
or  measured  in  sterling  exchange  or  napo- 


60  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

Icons.  But  the  countess  seemed  to  attach 
much  weight  to  May's  communication. 

Money,  alas !  was  in  these  sordid  times 
necessary,  even  for  patriotic  revolutions. 
The  wheels  must  be  greased,  even  when 
Bucephalus  drew  the  chariot.  Still,  this 
was  not  the  essential.  She  was  quite  will- 
ing to  share  her  small  fortune  with  the 
man  whom  she  loved  ;  but  how  could  she 
bear  to  ruin  him — to  make  her  alliance  his 
sacrifice  ?  Suppose  he  should  ever  repent 
his  action  ?  And  here  May  began  to  make 
his  oaths  eternal ;  but  she  stopped  him. 
Was  there  no  other  way  ?  Could  there 
be  no  escape,  no  legal  device  ?  Lawyers 
would  do  almost  anything,  if  paid  enough. 
But  May  shook  his  head,  and  pressed  again 
her  hand  to  his  lips  ;  and  her  dark  eyes 
brimmed  with  tears. 

She,  for  herself,  would  be  willing  to  suf- 
fer him  as  her  adorer,  to  trust  him  as  her 
knight,  her  follower,  as  he  once  had  pro- 
posed before.  And,  by  that  arrangement, 
he  would  not  lose  the  fortune.  But  what 
would  the  world  say — the  cold  and  heart- 
less world  ?  And  she  looked  at  May  im- 
ploringly, as  if  for  advice. 


Dido  and  AZneas.  61 

And  May  had  to  admit,  in  answer,  that 
the  world  would  be  likely  to  make  itself  as 
disagreeable  as  usual  under  similar  circum- 
stances— particularly,  now  that  the  unhappy 
count  was  dead,  and  could  no  longer  defend 
his  heroic  consort  from  the  spite  of  petty 
spirits.  The  moral  support  was  something, 
after  all.  May  had  true  Boston  reverence 
for  what  the  world  said  ;  and  it  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  even  a  heroine,  who  had 
braved  two  emperors,  might  brave  its  ver- 
dict. 

For  some  moments  neither  spoke.  What 
was  there  to  say  ?  But  the  silence  grew 
oppressive  ;  and  at  last  she  broke  it  with  a 
cry. 

"Farewell,  then,"  said  she. 

But  at  this  May  broke  out  with  a  round 
oath.  Farewell  it  should  never  be.  What 
cared  he  for  his  uncle's  fortune,  or  for.  the 
estate  in  Brookline,  when  his  future  lay  in 
Poland?  He  would  have  a  little  left;  he 
could  win  more  by  his  own  exertions.  For 
a  moment  his  impetuosity  almost  overbore 
her  resistance.  But  then  the  Paris  salon 
was  a  necessity  ;  and  half  of  her  own  estate 
and  all  of  poor  Polacco's  had  been  seized 


62  Tie  Residuary  Legatee. 

by  foreign  despots.  She  would  think  it 
over.  She  would  give  him  an  answer  that 
night.  And  then  there  came  a  lover's  part- 
ing ;  and  May  went  back  to  his  hotel,  not 
wholly  desperate,  and  got  the  engagement- 
ring  he  had  ordered,  and  sent  it  to  her.  It 
was  of  small  diamonds  ;  but  then  there  was 
a  necklace,  sent  from  Paris,  of  perfect  Ori- 
ental pearls.  A  woman  could  afford  to  get 
engaged  once  a  month,  for  such  a  necklace. 

And  he  had  gone  back  that  evening,  and 
he  had  found  a  letter.  The  countess  had 
gone,  leaving  the  note  behind  her.  It  was 
edged  with  deep  black  ;  and  May  took  it 
now  from  his  pocket-book,  yellow  and  worn, 
with  a  smile  that  would  have  been  cynical 
had  it  not  been  slightly  nervous. 

"  Tres-cher  !  "  it  began,  "  I  cannot  bear  " 
(it  was  all  in  French,  but  we  will  make 
clumsy  English  of  the  countess's  delicate 
phrase,  as  did  May,  when  he  read  it  now) 
"  that  your  love  for  me  should  be  your  ruin. 
It  is  too  late  for  me  to  deny  that  you  also 
have  my  heart ;  I  can  only  fly.  Otherwise 
my  woman's  weakness  would  destroy  either 
you  or  myself.  I  shall  go  by  the  morning 
train  to  Frankfurt,  where  I  shall  stop  two 


Dido  and  ^Eneas.  6} 

days.  If  you  do  not  wish  to  betray  me, 
seek  not  my  refuge  out.  I  shall  keep  the 
ring  as  a  pledge"  (she  says  nothing  about 
the  necklace,  it  occurred  to  May,  at  this  late 
date) — "  a  pledge  that  I  shall  be  faithful  to 
you,  as,  I  hope,  you  to  me.  For  what  are 
six  or  seven  years  ? "  (At  her  age  !  thought 
May,  with  a  shudder.)  "  I  will  devote  them 
to  my  unhappy  countrymen.  (Compatriotes 
was  the  original,  which  may  be  feminine.) 
"  But  wait  for  me  until  you  are  free  ;  and 
perhaps,  who  knows  ?  my  Italy  redeemed ! 
I  will  join  you,  and  be  one  with  you  for- 
ever. Meantime  you  will  travel,  possibly 
forget  me  !  But  on  the  fourteenth  of  Au- 
gust, 1886,  you  will  be  at  home.  On  that 
day  you  will  hear  from  me .'" 

May  laid  the  letter  down  and  shuddered. 
This  was  most  unquestionably  the  fourteenth 
day  of  August  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  eighty-six.  He  seized  nervously  the 
glass  of  claret ;  but,  as  he  raised  it  to  his 
lips,  looked  through  the  blinds,  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  house.  His  second  glass  of 
claret  fell  unheeded  to  the  floor. 

A  carriage  was  standing  before  the  front 
door,  and  beside  it  stood  a  footman  in  livery. 


THE    ADMINISTRATION 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF   PARIS. 

THE  three  years  following  May's  unhappy 
affair  with  the  Countess  Polacca  de  Valska 
had  been  uneventful.  He  had  not  plunged 
again  into  foreign  parts,  but  became  a  stu- 
dent of  the  barbarities  of  civilization.  He 
saw  what  is  termed  the  world,  particularly 
that  manifestation  of  it  which  attains  its 
most  perfect  growth  in  London  and  Paris. 
Perhaps  it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that 
he  forgot  the  Countess  de  Valska,  but  cer- 
tainly his  feelings  toward  that  unhappy  fair 
one  underwent  certain  modifications.  And 
as  he  was  in  the  meantime  in  the  receipt  of 
some  twenty  thousand  a  year  from  the  es- 
tate of  the  late  John  Austin,  he  by  degrees 
became  more  reconciled  to  the  extremely 
practical  view  the  cruel  countess  had  taken 
of  their  duties  in  relation  to  that  gentle- 
man's wilL 


68  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

He  very  often  wondered  as  to  who  might 
be  the  residuary  legatee.  It  would  be  a 
wild  freak,  that  he  was  sure  of.  It  was 
quite  on  the  cards  for  Uncle  Austin  to  have 
provided  that,  since  his  nephew  did  not 
want  the  money,  it  might  go  to  the  devil  for 
all  he  cared — or  to  the  Total  Abstinence  So- 
ciety. 

It  is  more  sad  to  say  that,  as  time  went 
by,  certain  metaphysical  doubts  as  to  the 
objective  reality  of  the  Cascadegli  and  the 
Siberian  mine  began  to  obtrude  themselves. 
Faith  of  the  most  stubborn  description  re- 
mained to  him,  so  far  as  the  countess's 
Paris  salon  and  her  beautiful  self  was  con- 
cerned, but  he  failed  to  see  the  necessary 
connection  between  Trouville,  Baden-Bad- 
en, Italia  Irredenta,  and  the  Parisian  police. 
And  Serge  had  removed  himself,  for  an  en- 
cumbrance, in  a  singularly  accommodating 
way. 

But  May  was  a  man  of  his  word  ;  and  lie 
looked  forward,  at  first  eagerly,  and  after- 
ward with  mingled  emotions,  to  their  prom- 
ised next  meeting  in  Brookline,  Mass. 

The  woman  Byron  might  have  married 
was  not  the  wife  for  Talleyrand.  And  May's 


The  Judgment  of  Paris.  69 

volcanic  or  Byronic  age  had  passed,  and  he 
was  in  the  tertiary  period.  Taking  her  for 
all  she  said  she  was,  she  wouldn't  do  in  so- 
ciety, and  he  doubted  that  she  was  all  she 
said  she  was. 

However,  it  gave  him  no  serious  trouble 
until  after  his  acquaintance  with  the  beau- 
tiful Mrs.  Tcrwilliger  Dehon.  Youth  has  a 
long  future  ahead  of  it,  and  a  young  man 
of  twenty-seven  easily  discounts  obligations 
maturing  only  in  six  years.  But  when  May 
was  thirty,  and  well  launched  in  London 
society — whether  it  was  the  charms  of  Mrs. 
Dehon  aforesaid,  or  the  vanishing  of  youth- 
ful heroism  and  that  increase  of  comfort 
which  attends  middle  life — a  political  hero- 
ine like  the  Countess  Polacca  de  Valska  no 
longer  seemed  to  him  the  ideal  consort  for 
a  man  of  his  temperament. 

Young  men  have  their  time  for  falling  in 
love  with  comediennes  upon  the  stage  ;  and 
then  they  turn  to  the  comediennes  of  real 
life.  Only  in  the  latter  case  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  they  ever  prefer  the  heroines  of  a 
tragedy. 

It  was  on  the  very  evening  before  all  ad- 
vice became  superfluous,  that  he  confided 


jo  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

his  troubles  to  Tom  Leigh,  and  asked  his 
advice.  Torn  Leigh  advised  him  that  "he 
was  in  a  devil  of  a  hole." 

"But  what  am  I  to  do?  "said  May.  "I 
am  bound  to  meet  her — in  five  years." 

"Perhaps  she  won't  come,"  said  Tom. 
But  Austin  shook  his  head.  If  she  didn't 
come,  there  was  May  Austin — but  he  checked 
himself.  He  had  never  spoken  of  his  cousin 
to  Tom  Leigh.  She  was  doubtless  married 
ere  this  ;  and  if  she  wasn't,  he  preferred  her 
to  the  countess. 

"Perhaps  her  husband  ain't  dead,"  sug- 
gested the  resourceful  Tom.  But  May 
smiled,  bitterly.  "  I  guess  he's  dead  enough 
— much  as  ever  he  was." 

"Then  I  don't  see  but  what  you'll  have 
to  stand  the  breach  of  promise  suit,"  Tom 
concluded,  with  a  grin.  In  these  misfor- 
tunes, truly,  there  is  something  pleasant  to 
our  best  friends.  We  know  that  Messrs. 
Winkle  and  Tupman  must  have  chuckled 
in  secret  over  even  Bardell  vs.  Pickwick. 
But  the  idea  was  unspeakably  awful  to  our 
fastidious  hero.  Moreover,  he  darkly  im- 
agined that  the  countess  had  other  resources 
than  a  breach  of  promise  suit. 


The  Judgment  of  Paris.  77 

This  was  on  the  evening  before  the  hunt ; 
on  that  epochal  brink  of  their  first  meeting. 
And  on  the  next  day  all  this  talk  became 
superfluous ;  as  superfluous  as  for  Falstaff 
to  demand  the  time  of  day. 


II. 

A   LEAD  OF   HEARTS. 

MRS.  TERWILLIGER  DEHON — ah,  Mrs.  De- 
hon  !  Great  heavens  !  why  had  they  not 
met  earlier — before  she  had  sacrificed  her- 
self upon  Terwilliger's  commonplace  al- 
tars— before  her  radiant  youth  had  been 
shrouded  in  tragedy  ? 

The  Russo-French  police  may  be  success- 
fully evaded,  but  not  so  the  laws  of  society. 
Naught  but  misery  could  he  see  in  store 
for  them  both — one  long  life-agony  of  di- 
vided souls. 

Of  course,  it  took  some  time  before  this 
dismal  prospect  lay  fairly  out  before  them. 
At  their  first  meeting  there  was  nothing 
sadder  in  sight  than  the  purple  hills  of  Ex- 
moor  and  the  clear  cascade  of  Bagworthy 
Water ;  and  their  talk  was  broken  only  by 
the  cheerful  yelp  of  hounds.  And  there 
had  been  fortune,  too,  in  this  ;  fortune  we 


A  Lead  of  Hearts.  73 

call  fate,  when  fortune  turns  out  ill.  He 
had  hardly  seen  her  at  the  Cloudsham 
meet,  and  but  just  knew  who  she  was. 
Thither  he  had  gone  with  his  friends,  the 
Leighs,  to  see  the  red  deer  hunted  in  his 
ancient  lair  ;  and  as  he  stood  there,  snuff- 
ing with  his  horse  the  sea-breeze  that  came 
up  from  Porlock  Bay,  immaculate  in  coat 
and  patent-leathers,  she  had  ridden  up 
with  a  fat  and  pursy  citizen  beside  her. 
This  stall-fed  citizen  was  horse-back  on 
another  square-built  brute,  and  it  was  very 
Psychecide  to  call  the  wretch  her  husband. 
A  Diana,  by  heaven  !  thought  he  ;  and,  in- 
deed, she  sat  her  horse  as  any  goddess 
might,  and  clothed  her  own  riding-habit  as 
the  moon  her  covering  of  cloud. 

"Who's  that  ?"  said  he  to  Tom  Leigh. 

"  That's  the  girl  that  married  old  Dehon," 
said  Tom.  "  She  did  it " 

But  when  or  how  she  did  it  Austin  never 
knew,  for  just  then  there  was  a  joyous  bay- 
ing from  the  hounds,  and  whish  !  they 
scampered  downward,  skirting  hanging 
Cloudsham  Wood.  Unluckily,  they  were 
at  the  wrong  end  of  the  field,  and  before 
they  readied  the  steep  bit  of  gorsy  moor 


74  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

that  overlooks  the  valley  everyone  else  who 
meant  to  ride  had  disappeared  in  the  cover 
of  the  forest.  She  reined  in  her  beautiful 
horse  on  the  very  brink,  and  looked  up 
the  valley  over  Oare  Hill  ;  May  stood  a  few 
yards  below  and  looked  down  the  valley  in 
the  direction  of  Porlock.  Then  she  looked 
down  the  valley  to  Porlock,  and  May  looked 
up  the  valley  to  Oare  Hill.  And  their 
eyes  met. 

Her  beautiful  eyes  glanced  quickly  off, 
like  a  sunbeam  from  a  single  eyeglass. 
She  turned,  as  if  in  sudden  decision,  and 
sped  like  an  arrow  over  the  high  moor. 
May's  eyes  followed  her  ;  and  his  soul  was 
in  his  eyes,  and  his  body  went  after  the 
soul.  One  dig  of  the  spurs  nigh  unseated 
him,  as  if  his  spirited  horse  scorned  such 
an  incitement  to  chivalric  duty  ;  and  so,  for 
some  twenty  minutes  on  end  they  rode, 
May  neither  gaining  nor  losing,  and  both 
out  of  sight  of  the  rest  of  the  hunt.  Now 
and  then  the  cry  of  hounds  came  up  from 
the  forest-valley  on  the  right,  and  May 
fancied  he  heard  below  a  crashing  as  of 
bushes  ;  but  he  had  faith  in  his  guiding 
goddess  and  he  took  her  lead. 


A  Lead  of  Hearts.  75 

The  high  winds  whistled  by  his  head, 
and  there  were  blue  glimpses  of  the  sea 
and  wide  gray  gleams  of  misty  moorland  ; 
but  the  soft  heather  made  no  sound  of 
their  mad  gallop,  and  May  was  conscious 
of  nothing  else  save  the  noble  horse  before 
him  and  the  flutter  of  the  lady's  riding- 
habit  in  the  wind.  Now  the  earth  that 
rushed  beneath  was  yellow  with  the  gorse, 
now  purple  with  the  heather ;  here,  he 
would  sail  over  a  turf-bank,  there,  his  horse 
would  swerve  furiously  from  the  feeling  of 
an  Exmoor  bog ;  where  she  would  ride,  he 
would  ride.  This  he  swore  to  himself  ;  but 
she  rode  straight,  and  he  could  make  no 
gain.  At  the  top  of  the  moor,  almost  on 
the  ridge  of  Dunkery  Beacon,  was  a  narrow 
cart-path,  fenced  six  feet  high  in  ferny  turf, 
after  the  usual  manner  of  Devonshire  lanes. 
May  saw  it  and  exulted  ;  this  was  sure  to 
turn  her,  till  she  found  a  gate  at  least. 

But  his  beautiful  chase  rode  up  the 
gentle  inner  incline  and  sailing  over  the 
lane  like  a  bird,  was  lost  to  sight  upon  the 
other  side. 

"  By  heavens  !  "  swore  May  to  himself. 
"  She  means  to  kill  herself." 


j6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

He  rode  at  it  and  cleared  the  six-foot 
width  of  lane  successfully ;  but  his  horse 
could  not  bunch  his  legs  upon  the  narrow 
bank  beyond.  He  rolled  down  it,  and  May 
over  his  head  into  a  bank  of  heather. 

The  eager  American  prematurely  began 
to  swear  before  his  head  struck  the  ground  ; 
and  before  his  one  moderate  oath  was  fin- 
ished, he  was  upon  his  horse  and  off  again. 
Mrs.  Dehon  had  not  even  turned  round 
upon  his  disaster  ;  but  May  was  none  the 
less  attracted  to  her  by  that.  What  was 
mortal  mishap  to  a  spirit  wrecked  like  hers  ? 
Why  should  she  ? 

They  were  riding  down  hill  now  ;  and 
she  was  riding  a  little  more  carefully,  favor- 
ing her  horse.  But  May  cared  neither  for 
his  horse  nor  his  neck  by  this  time.  Straight 
down  the  hill  he  rode  ;  and  by  the  time 
they  reached  the  Lynn  he  had  gained  the 
quarter-mile  he  lost.  Here  she  had  pulled 
up  her  horse,  and  he  pulled  up  his  at  a  cour- 
teous distance  ;  and  both  sat  still  there,  in 
the  quiet  valley  ;  and  the  noise  of  their 
horses'  breathing  was  louder  than  the  rustle 
of  the  wind  in  the  old  ash-trees  around 
them. 


A  Lead  of  Hearts.  77 

May  wondered  if  his  pilot  was  at  fault ; 
but  hardly  had  the  thought  crossed  his 
mind  before  they  heard  again  the  music  of 
the  hounds,  at  full  cry  ;  and  far  up,  two  or 
more  miles  away,  toward  the  Countisbury 
road,  they  saw  the  stag.  Though  so  far 
off,  he  was  distinctly  visible,  as  he  paused 
for  one  moment  on  the  brow  of  the  black 
moor,  outlined  against  the  blue  sky  ;  then 
he  plunged  downward,  and  the  hounds 
after  him,  and  May's  horse  trembled  be- 
neath him  ;  and  May  wondered  why  his 
goddess  was  not  off. 

But  instead  of  riding  down  to  meet  the 
hunt,  along  the  valley  of  the  East  Lynn,  by 
Oare  Church  and  Brendon,  she  turned  and 
rode  up  in  the  direction  of  Chalk-water. 
May  followed  ;  and  hardly  had  they  left 
the  Lynn  and  gone  a  furlong  up  the  Chalk- 
water  Combe,  when  she  struck  sharp  to 
the  right,  breasting  the  very  steepest  part 
of  Oare  Oak  Hill.  If  she  knew  that  he 
was  behind  her,  she  did  not  look  around  ; 
and  May  again  had  all  that  he  could  do  to 
keep  his  guide  in  sight. 

And  now  the  event  proved  her  skilful 
venery.  For  as  they  crested  Oare  Oak 


7#  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

Hill,  and  the  long  bare  swell  of  the  moor 
rolled  away  before  them,  the  sharp  cry  of 
the  hounds  came  up  like  sounds  of  victory 
in  the  valley  just  below.  Well  had  Diana 
known  that  either  way  of  the  Lynn  would 
be  too  full  of  his  enemies  for  the  now  ex- 
hausted deer  to  take.  It  must  make  for 
Bagworthy  Water.  Long  ere  they  had  rid- 
den down  the  Lynn  to  the  meeting  of  the 
streams,  the  hunt  would  have  passed  ;  but 
now,  as  they  looked  across  and  along  the 
lonely  Doone  Valley,  they  saw  the  full 
pack  far  down  at  their  feet,  close  by  the 
foaming  stream. 

Then  May  could  see  his  leader  whip  her 
horse,  as  if  she  would  open  the  gap  be- 
tween them  ;  and  he  set  his  teeth  and  swore 
that  he  would  overtake  her,  this  side  the 
death.  And  he  gained  on  her  slowly,  and 
the  purple  and  yellow  patches  mingled  to  a 
carpet  as  they  whirled  by  him,  and  he  felt 
the  springing  of  his  horse's  haunches  like 
the  waves  of  a  sea ;  and  below  them,  hardly 
apace  with  them,  was  the  hunt  and  the  cry 
of  hounds.  Down  one  last  plunging  valley 
— no,  there  was  another  yet  to  cross,  a  deep 
side-combe  running  transversely,  its  bot- 


A  Lead  of  Hearts.  79 

torn  hid  in  ferns.  But  the  hounds  were 
now  abreast  of  them,  below,  and  there  was 
no  time  to  ride  up  and  around.  May  saw 
her  take  it ;  and  as  she  did,  a  great  shelf  of 
rock  and  turf  broke  off  and  fell  into  the 
brook  below.  He  saw  her  turn  and  wave 
him  back  ;  it  was  the  first  notice  she  had 
taken  of  him  ;  and  he  rode  straight  at  the 
widened  breach  and  took  it  squarely,  land- 
ing by  her  side.  Then,  without  a  word, 
they  dashed  down,  alongside  of  the  slope, 
and  there,  in  upper  Bagworthy  Waters, 
found  the  deer  at  bay,  and  the  hounds  ; 
but  of  the  hunt  no  sign,  save  Nicholas 
Snow,  the  huntsman,  with  reeking  knife. 
He  had  already  blooded  his  hounds  ;  and 
now  he  sat  meditatively  upon  a  little  rock 
by  the  stream,  his  black  jockey-cap  in  his 
hands,  looking  at  the  body  of  the  noble 
stag,  now  lifeless,  that  had  so  lately  been  a 
thing  of  speed  and  air.  A  warrantable  deer 
it  was,  and  its  end  was  not  untimely. 

May  pushed  his  panting  horse  up  nearer 
hers.  She  was  sitting  motionless,  her  cheeks 
already  pale  again,  her  eyes  fixed  far  off 
upon  the  distant  moor.  "Mrs.  Dehon!" 
said  he,  hat  in  hand. 


8o  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

The  faintest  possible  inclination  of  her 
head  was  his  only  response. 

"  I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  lead," 
said  May. 

For  one  moment  she  turned  her  large 
eyes  down  to  him.  "You  ride  well,  sir," 
said  she. 

When  the  M.  D.  H.  and  others  of  the 
hunt  came  up,  they  found  these  two  talk- 
ing on  a  footing  of  ancient  friendship. 
The  slot  was  duly  cut  off  and  presented 
to  Mrs.  Dehon ;  and  many  compliments 
fell  to  our  hero's  share,  for  all  of  which 
May  gave  credit  to  the  beautiful  huntress 
beside  him. 

Tom  Leigh  cocked  his  eye  at  this,  but 
did  not  venture  to  present  him  to  her  after 
that  twenty-mile  run.  It  were  throwing 
the  helve  after  the  hatchet,  to  present  the 
man  after  the  heart.  And  thus  it  happened 
that  to  her  our  hero  was  never  introduced. 

When  Mr.  Dehon  arrived,  some  hours 
later,  Tom  Leigh  led  him  up.  "Mr.  De- 
hon," said  he,  "  I  think  that  you  should 
know  my  particular  friend,  Mr.  Austin 
May."  And  Tom  Leigh  cocked  his  eye 
again. 


A  Lead  of  Hearts.  81 

May  looked  at  the  pursy  little  old  man, 
and  felt  that  his  hatred  for  him  would  only 
be  buried  in  his  enemy's  grave.  But  his 
enemy  was  magnanimous,  and  promptly 
asked  them  both  to  dinner,  which  May  did 
not  scruple  to  accept. 
6 


III. 

PERSEUS   AND  ANDROMEDA. 

AUSTIN  MAY  fell  devoutly  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Dehon.  This  was  without  doubt  the 
grande  passion  of  his  life.  And  it  was  hope- 
less. 

He  was  just  at  the  age  when  such  affairs 
are  sternest  realities  to  modern  men.  He 
was  beyond  the  uncertainty  of  youth,  and 
before  the  compromises  and  practicalities 
of  middle  life.  And  there  was  something' 
about  Gladys  Dehon  to  make  a  man  who 
cared  for  her  ride  rough-shod,  neck  or 
nothing,  overall  things  else.  All  the  world 
admired  her;  would  have  loved  her  had  it 
dared.  There  was  no  daring  about  it  in 
Austin's  case  ;  his  audacity  was  not  self- 
conscious  ;  he  simply  followed  her  as  he  had 
followed  her  over  combe  and  beacon  on 
that  Exmoor  day. 

People  could  tell  him  little  about  her,  save 


Perseus  and  Andromeda.  83 

that  she  had  been  very  poor  and  very 
proud,  and  was  very  beautiful.  Gladys 
Darcy — that  had  been  her  name — last  of  a 
broken  family  of  Devon  and  of  Ireland. 
She  had  neither  sister  nor  brother,  only  a 
broken-down  father,  long  since  sold  out  of 
his  Household  captaincy.  She  had  sold 
herself  to  Terwilliger  Dehon,  the  rich  specu- 
lator ;  and  she  was  his,  as  a  cut  diamond 
might  have  been  his  ;  bought  with  his  money, 
shining  in  his  house,  and  he  no  more  with- 
in her  secret  self  than  he  might  have  been 
within  the  diamond's  brilliant  surface.  And 
two  months  after  the  wedding  her  old 
father  had  died  and  made  the  sacrifice  in 
vain.  Then  she  became  the  personage  that 
the  world  knew  as  the  "beautiful  Mrs. 
Dehon."  May  used  to  dream  and  ponder 
about  her,  long  hours  of  nights  and  days  ; 
and  he  fancied  that  something  about  her 
life,  her  lonely  bringing-up,  her  father's 
precepts,  had  made  her  scornfully  incredu- 
lous of  there  being  such  a  thing  as  the 
novelist's  love  in  life.  She  had  been  a 
greater  nature  than  her  father,  and  all  man- 
kind had  been  nothing  to  her  as  compared 
with  even  him.  Too  early  scorn  of  this 


84  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

world's  life  prepares  the  soul  for  evil  com- 
promises. 

Her  character,  her  nature,  she  expressed 
in  no  way  whatever.  She  had  neither  inti- 
mate friends,  charitable  occupations,  tastes, 
follies,  nor  faults.  She  shone  with  a  certain 
scornful  glitter  of  splendor,  but  even  of  old 
Dehon's  millions  she  was  not  prodigal. 
She  never  flirted  ;  she  never  looked  at  one 
man  long  enough  for  that.  Her  one  occu- 
pation was  hunting,  and  she  rode  to  hounds 
in  a  way  to  jar  the  nerves  of  every  M.  F.  H. 
in  England. 

Tom  Leigh  was  afraid  of  her  ;  and  when 
they  were  asked  for  a  week's  visit  that  au- 
tumn, in  their  box  in  Leicestershire,  refused 
to  go.  May  went.  And  if  there  was  a  man 
of  whom  she  was  not  utterly  unconscious, 
he  surely  was  the  one.  Perhaps  there  was 
something  about  his  way  that  she  liked. 
For,  with  neither  much  speech,  delay,  nor 
artifice,  our  hero  made  his  heart  and  soul 
up  into  a  small  packet  and  threw  them  into 
her  deep  eyes  ;  and  when  she  looked  at  him, 
he  had  them  ;  and  when  she  looked  away, 
they  were  gone.  And  this  he  did  perfectly 
frankly  and  directly,  but  without  spoken 


Perseus  and  Andromeda.  85 

words.  The  world  saw  it  as  clearly  as  did 
she,  and  liked  him  none  the  less  for  it.  He 
was  quite  incapable  of  any  effort  to  conceal 
it ;  old  Terwilliger  might  have  seen  it  had 
he  been  so  minded.  Possibly  he  did,  and 
the  knowledge  lent  an  added  value  to  his 
chattel  in  the  old  stockbroker's  mind.  Mrs. 
Dehon  herself  treated  May  with  perfect 
simplicity,  but  with  an  infinite  gentleness, 
as  the  moon-goddess  might  have  looked 
upon  Endymion. 

This  state  of  things  got  to  be  perfectly 
well  known  to  the  world.  Such  things 
always  are  well  known  to  the  world  ;  nothing 
is  more  striking  than  the  perfect  openness 
with  which  our  heart-histories  are  revealed 
in  modern  life,  except  perhaps  the  ease  with 
which  those  most  intimately  concerned 
maintain  a  polite  and  unembarrassed  ap- 
pearance of  utter  ignorance  upon  the  sub- 
ject. All  the  world  loves  a  lover,  particu- 
larly a  hopeless  one  ;  and  it  was  quite  the 
mot  ifordre  of  society  that  year  for  people  to 
ask  Mrs.  Dehon  and  the  handsome  Amer- 
ican to  their  houses  together. 

And  Mrs.  Dehon  ?  Well,  before  the  com- 
ing of  spring  she  felt  a  great  and  trustful 


86  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

friendship  for  this  incidental  castaway  upon 
the  waters  of  her  troubled  life.  May  after- 
ward remembered  that  she  told  him  many 
things  about  herself ;  and  she  had  spoken 
of  herself  to  no  one  else  before,  her  own 
father  included.  She  even  let  him  see  a 
little  of  her  heart.  And  it  is  an  axiom  that 
he  who  sees  ever  so  little  of  a  woman's 
heart  has  but  to  take  it.  Seeing  is  posses- 
sion. This  is  the  wisdom  of  the  fair  Melu- 
sine,  and  other  wise  old  mediaeval  myths. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  May  had  abso- 
lutely forgotten  the  Countess  de  Valska  ; 
more  completely  than  even  she  had  for- 
gotten the  Siberian  mausoleum  of  her  Serge. 
I  May  thought  of  her  once  in  that  year,  it 
was  to  dismiss  her  memory  with  a  curse 
for  his  own  folly,  and  a  mental  oath  that  no 
Trouvillian  countess  would  part  him,  should 
his  way  ever  be  clear  to  Gladys  Darcy.  He 
would  not  recognize  the  hated  name  of 
Dehon,  even  in  his  thoughts. 

In  his  despair,  he  confided  in  Tom  Leigh 
again.  Tom  saw  no  reason  to  change  his 
previous  opinion.  The  hole  seemed  if 
anything  deeper,  now  that  two  were  in  it. 
"I  don't  see  but  what  you've  got  to  escape 


Perseus  and  Andromeda.  8j 

the  countess,  bring  Serge  to  life,  kill  old 
Terwilliger,  and  thus  give  her  two  years' 
mourning,"  said  he.  "  Why  the  deuce  didn't 
you  find  her  out  first  ? "  he  added,  ruefully. 
"  Old  Tenvilligcr  only  married  her  eigh- 
teen months  ago." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  May.  "Why  don't 
you  invent  his  railway  schemes,  and  dis- 
cover his  Cornish  mines  ?" 

"  True,"  assented  Tom.  "Old  Dehon  al- 
ways does  get  in  on  the  ground  floor.  How- 
ever," he  added,  brightening  up,  "if  you 
can  marry  her,  you'll  get  her  and  his  money, 
too." 

"  Damn  his  money,"  said  May. 

Tom  looked  shocked,  and  changed  the 
subject,  and  May's  heart  continued  so  to 
bleed  internally  that  soon  Gladys  Dehon's 
marble  brow  would  soften  to  pity  as  she 
saw  him  wane.  Meantime  Tenvilliger's 
capon-lined  stomach  waxed  apace,  and  even 
his  digestion  was  to  all  appearance  unim- 
paired. 

Now,  it  is  probable  that  ours  is  the  first 
civilization  known  to  history  where  this 
state  of  things  could  exist,  be  mutually 
known,  and  continue  in  tranquil  perma- 


88  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

nency.  But  it  does — that  is,  it  nearly  always 
does — and  it  is  a  credit,  after  all,  to  our 
teaching  and  our  times  that  it  does  so.  The 
ancient  Perseus  cut  Andromeda's  chains, 
and  departed  with  her  by  the  next  P.  and 
O.  steamer  they  could  signal  ;  the  modern 
one  sits  down  on  the  strand  beside  her,  and 
he  and  Andromeda  die  to  slow  music — that 
is,  in  case  either  should  chance  to  die  before 
the  malady  is  cured.  And  Andromeda's 
master  relies  on  the  strength  of  his  chains 
and  on  Perseus's  good  bringing  up,  and  is 
not  wholly  displeased  at  the  situation.  Par- 
ticularly for  a  sly  old  stock-broker  like  Ter- 
williger  Dehon,  whose  idea  of  values  is 
based  on  the  opinion  of  the  street,  a  Perseus 
to  his  Andromeda  is  half  the  fun.  The 
world,  on  the  whole,  approves  the  situation  ; 
but  the  husband  Dehon  is  not  a  popular 
character,  and  it  likes  the  Perseus  better. 
Not,  of  course,  that  it  is  willing  to  condone 
anything  improper,  particularly  on  the 
part  of  Andromeda. 

But  Austin  May  stood  the  passive  r61e  for 
precisely  twelve  months  ;  and  then  he  made 
up  his  mind  that  something  would  have  to 
break.  He  hoped  it  might  be  the  neck  of  old 


Perseus  and  Andromeda.  89 

Terwilliger  ;  but  Providence  seldom  spoils 
a  dramatic  situation  by  so  simple  a  denoue- 
ment. And,  to  tell  the  truth,  considering 
the  way  the  three  rode  to  hounds,  it  was 
much  more  likely  to  be  his  own  or  Gladys's. 
One  thing  was  sure  :  their  triangular  rela- 
tions were  too  strained  to  continue.  He 
came  to  this  conclusion  after  one  precisely 
similar  day  upon  Exmoor,  a  year  after  their 
first  meeting  ;  except  that  upon  this  oc- 
casion the  deer  took  to  the  sea  below  Glen- 
thorne  and  was  drowned,  and  he  and  Gladys 
rode  homeward  side  by  side  in  silence. 

Accordingly,  that  night  Austin  May  wrote 
a  letter  ;  and  in  the  morning  showed  Ter- 
williger a  telegram  from  America,  took  his 
departure,  shook  hands  hard  with  old  Ter- 
williger, barely  touched  the  slender  fingers 
of  his  wife,  but,  when  he  did  so,  left  the 
letter  in  her  hand.  May  kept  no  copy  of 
this  letter  ;  but  he  remembered  it  very  well. 
It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  GLADYS  : 

"  I  must  not  stay  in  England  any  more. 
I  cannot  bear  it.  I  know  that  you  are  un- 
happy, and  I  must  go  where,  at  least,  I  shall 


po  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

not  see  it.     Nor  can  I  trust  myself  with  you 
after  our  ride  of  yesterday. 

"  Remember  always  that,  wherever  I  am, 
I  am  always  and  only  yours.  This  is  a  very 
strange  thing  to  say ;  but  I  think  there  are 
times  when  men  and  women  should  show- 
each  other  their  hearts,  however  much  the 
truth  may  shock  the  prudes  and  pedants. 
And  I  do  very  much  wish  to  say  that  if  ever 
you  are  free,  I  ask  you  to  marry  me. 

"  It  is  a  sad  thing  that  the  circumstances 
of  your  wedded  life  are  such  that  I  can  say 
these  things  to  you  and  not  offend  you. 
But  you  have  shown  rne  enough  of  your 
heart  for  this. 

"  I  go  now  into  Asia.  A  trivial  duty  will 
call  me  to  my  family  home  for  one  day,  on 
August  14,  1886.  Then,  if  I  do  not  hear  of 
you  there,  I  shall  disappear  again.  After 
that  I  shall  write  you  once  a  year. 
"  Good-by, 

"A.  M." 


jgcene 


THE    FINAL    ACCOUNTS 


AENEAS  AND   CAMILLA. 

POOR  Austin  !  A  boy's  love  feeds  on  the 
romance  of  hopelessness,  flourishes  apace 
in  the  shadow  of  despair ;  it  delights  in 
patient  waiting,  in  faithful  fidelity,  in  lapses 
of  years  ;  but  a  man's  is  peremptory,  im- 
mediate, uncompromising.  Some  secret 
instinct  bids  a  Romeo  to  contemplate  a 
tragedy  with  cheerfulness  ;  and  ten  to  one 
that  his  years  of  gloom  change,  as  they  fall 
behind  him,  to  "  un  joli  souvenir. "  But  a 
man,  middle-aged,  knows  when  he  wants 
his  Dulcinea,  and  he  wants  her  here  and 
now.  No  glamour  of  blighted  affections 
can  make  up  for  the  hard  facts  of  life  to 
him 

When  a  middle-aged  man  can't  get  the 
woman  he  wants,  there  are  three  recognized 
and  respectable  courses  open  to  him.  He 
works  a  little  harder,  plays  a  good  deal 


94  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

harder,  or  he  marries  someone  else.  The 
last  was  out  of  the  question  for  a  man  so 
consumed  by  the  fires  of  passion  as  Austin 
May,  but  the  fuel  of  his  heart  was  trans- 
formed into  nervous  energy  of  the  entire 
system.  He  plunged  again,  like  a  rocket, 
into  a  rapid  and  circuitous  course  of  travel 
and  adventure  ;  and,  after  a  brilliant  career 
through  the  remote  East,  descended,  like  a 
burned-out  stick,  some  fifteen  months  later, 
in  San  Francisco.  Thence  he  went  home. 

The  fact  was,  he  wanted  rest.  His  heart 
was  tired  of  throbbing,  his  head  weary  with 
thinking.  And  all  his  mad  adventure  had 
only  tired  the  body,  had  made  him  sleep  at 
night,  nothing  more.  He  had  been  through 
the  world  again,  but  Gladys  Dehon  was  all 
of  it  to  him.  He  thought  of  her  now  with 
a  certain  dull  pain — less  madly,  more  hope- 
lessly, than  in  England  the  two  years  be- 
fore. 

He  could  not  bear  to  go  back  to  his  home. 
He  went  to  Boston,  and  he  saw  his  lawyers  ; 
but  he  did  not  go  out  to  Brookline.  This 
he  vowed  he  would  not  do  until  that  day 
when  he  had  promised  Gladys  he  would 
be  there.  He  did  not  forget  that  he  had 


/Eneas  and  Camilla.  95 

promised  the  countess,  too  ;  but  he  was  no 
longer  so  much  troubled  by  the  countess. 
He  would  kill  her,  if  necessary. 

Meantime,  he  went  to  pass  the  winter  in 
New  York.  He  had  himself  elected  a  mem- 
ber of  two  fashionable  clubs.  He  followed 
the  hounds  in  Long  Island  and  in  Jersey. 
He  went  to  dinners  and  he  danced  at  Ger- 
mans, albeit  with  an  aching  heart.  He  re- 
naturalized  himself  ;  he  made  friends  with 
his  countrymen,  and  he  studied  his  country- 
women. He  got  himself  once  more  deso- 
riente  in  American  society.  He  observed 
what  respect  was  everywhere  shown  to  the 
Van  Dees,  and  how  little,  comparatively,  one 
thought  of  the  McDums.  He  found  that 
civilization  was  pitched  on  a  higher  scale, 
financially,  than  he  had  supposed.  Thirty 
thousand  a  year  was  none  too  much  for  a 
man  to  marry  on.  Now,  Austin  had  not 
over  twenty  thousand,  even  if  he  fulfilled 
the  hard  conditions  of  his  uncle's  will. 

He  took  an  interest  in  yachting,  and  gave 
orders  for  a  cutter  that  was  to  beat  the  pre- 
vailing style  of  sloop.  He  also  imported  a 
horse  or  two,  and  entered  one  of  them  at 
Sheepshead  Bay.  He  had  a  luxuriously 


g6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

furnished  flat,  near  Madison  Square.  He 
went  to  St.  Augustine  in  the  spring,  with 
the  VanDees,  and  while  there  was  intro- 
duced to  Georgiana  Rutherford.  He  saw 
her  afterward  in  New  York,  and  early  in 
June  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

Miss  Rutherford  was  a  young  lady  of  su- 
preme social  position,  great  wealth,  and 
beauty.  She  had  for  two  years  been  the 
leading  newspaper  belle  of  New  York  so- 
ciety. Her  movements,  her  looks,  her 
dresses,  the  state  of  her  health,  the  proba- 
ble state  of  her  affections — everything  about 
her,  to  the  very  dimples  in  her  white  shoul- 
ders— had  been  chronicled  with  crude  pre- 
cision in  the  various  metropolitan  journals 
having  pretensions  to  haut  ton  (for  high  tone 
is  not  a  good  translation),  and  had  thence 
been  eagerly  copied  throughout  the  provin- 
cial weeklies  of  the  land.  Miss  Rutherford 
was  absolutely  a  person  to  be  desired. 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  May  to  say  that  he 
was  false  to  Gladys  Dehon.  His  passion  for 
her,  too  vehement,  had  fairly  burned  itself 
out.  In  the  two  years  since  he  had  left  her, 
May's  heart  had,  as  it  were,  banked  its  vol- 
canic fires.  However  fissured  were  its  ra- 


/Eneas  and  Camilla.  97 

vined  depths,  the  surface  was  at  rest,  and  the 
lava-flood  that  concealed  it  was  already  cool. 
And  a  beautiful  huntswoman  who  had  rid- 
den out  of  sight  of  her  first  husband,  as  had 
Gladys  Dehon,  was  not  at  all  the  sort  of 
person  for  middle-aged  Austin  May  to  marry 
and  bring  to  Boston.  These  things  he  felt 
for  some  weeks  before  he  proposed  to  Miss 
Rutherford,  and  she  was  precisely  the  sort 
of  girl  he  saw  was  best.  If  old  Uncle  Aus- 
tin had  selected  her  himself,  he  could  not 
have  made  a  better  choice.  And  well, 
thought  May,  he  saw  the  motives  of  his 
kind  old  uncle's  will,  and  the  wisdom  born 
of  much  experience,  and  long  consideration 
and  a  knowledge  of  Eclipse  claret  that  had 
prompted  it.  A  young  man,  if  left  to  him- 
self, would  choose  him  a  different  wife  for 
each  three  years  of  his  life.  It  is  only  after 
he  has  run  the  gamut  of  all  impossibilities 
that  he  settles  down  upon  the  proper  thing. 
And  this,  at  last,  May  felt  assured  that  he 
had  done. 

May  did  not  pretend  to  himself  that  he 

loved  Georgiana  Rutherford  as  he  had  loved 

Gladys  Dehon.    Even  now,  he  was  not  blind 

to  that.    But  he  thought  that  she  was  pretty, 

7 


pS  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

and  well-placed,  and  good  style ;  and  she 
had  a  large  fortune,  and  a  still  larger  family 
connection,  all  of  the  very  best  securities. 

In  fact,  May,  at  least  so  far  as  he  admitted 
to  himself,  did  not  do  justice  to  the  qualities 
of  Miss  Rutherford.  Miss  Rutherford  was 
a  very  charming  girl ;  much  cleverer  and 
much  better  educated,  to  say  nothing  of  her 
style  and  beauty,  than  any  embryo  Gladys 
Dehon  that  May  had  ever  seen.  She  was 
perfectly  mistress  of  her  own  heart,  as  she 
was  of  her  own  fortune,  and  it  was  danger- 
ous to  present  to  her  foreigners,  lest  they 
afterward  shot  themselves.  They  always 
went  wild  about  her;  much  to  Miss  Ruther- 
ford's discomfort.  Some  would  besiege  her ; 
others  would  curse  her  ;  others,  still,  say 
evil  things  about  her  in  the  true  Parisian 
manner.  Miss  Rutherford  remained  "more 
than  usual  calm  "  through  it  all. 

She  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  flirt, 
but  it  was  not  so.  She  tried  her  adorers, 
Portia-like,  successively  ;  the  moment  that 
they  failed  to  reach  a  certain  standard,  it 
was  entirely  right  and  fair  for  her  to  drop 
them.  Some  of  them  would  cry  that  they 
were  hurt,  and  these  she  contemned  from 


/Eneas  and  Camilla.  99 

her  very  soul.  She  did  not  regard  such 
matters  as  subjects  for  tears.  Marriage  was 
a  step  in  life,  like  any  other,  and  only  de- 
served more  serious  consideration  because 
it  was  final. 

This  was  the  woman  whose  love  was  to 
make  heart-haven  for  Austin  May  ;  the  seri- 
ous, sober  choice  of  his  manhood,  after  all 
his  boyish  follies  were  past.  He  had  told 
her  very  seriously  and  politely  of  his  desire 
to  marry  her,  one  Sunday  evening,  on  the 
piazza  of  a  house  at  Newport.  It  was 
necessary  for  him  to  speak  in  a  low  tone, 
as  the  people  of  the  house  were  not  far  off. 
She  was  silent  for  some  seconds,  and  then 
he  had  kissed  her. 

But  here  came  in  the  first  really  difficult 
thing  to  do  in  the  whole  proceeding.  Not, 
indeed,  the  kissing  her.  But  how  was  he  to 
tell  her  of  the  countess  and  Gladys  Dehon  ? 
And  yet  he  must  tell  her,  if  only  to  explain 
the  necessary  delay  in  announcing  their  en- 
gagement. He  looked  at  her  in  the  light 
that  came  from  the  late  sunset ;  how  per- 
fectly of  the  great  world  she  was  !  He  could 
not  bear  to  lose  her  now  ;  she  was  just  such 
a  wife  as  he  would  invent  for  himself,  had 


TOO  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

she  not  existed.  She  was  sitting  silently,  in 
a  pose  that  was  full  of  grace  and  training ; 
much  too  finely  bred  to  be  blushing  because 
he  had  kissed  her.  No  man  had  ever  kissed 
her  before ;  and  yet,  when  she  deemed  that 
the  occasion  had  come  when  she  could  fitly 
let  one  do  it,  she  no  more  blushed  because 
she  had  so  resolved  than  she  would  blush  at 
entering  a  ball-room. 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  told 
her  very  calmly  the  history  of  his  life.  She 
was  greatly  interested,  and  listened  with  at- 
tention and  sympathy. 

"  Of  course,  you  must  be  there — on  August 
i4th,  I  mean." 

"And  keep  my  word  ?" 

"That,"  said  Miss  Rutherford,  "I  must 
leave  to  you.  You  can't  keep  your  word 
with  both  of  them." 

"After  all,"  said  May,  hopefully,  "they 
may  not  come." 

"  You  surely  do  not  expect  them  to  cross 
the  Atlantic  in  person  to  meet  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  said  May.  "  They  won't  do 
that — but  they  may  write  or  telegraph." 
But  May  did  not  feel  sure  what  Mme.  Po- 
lacca  de  Valska  might  or  might  not  do. 


/Eneas  and  Camilla.  101 

"At  all  events,"  said  she,  "I  think  our 
engagement  had  better  not  come  out  until 
after  the  i4th  of  August."  And  May  felt 
constrained  to  admit  that  this  was  best. 

"And  I  do  not  think  that  you  had  better 
see  me  until  then." 

"  What  ? "  cried  Austin. 

But  Miss  Rutherford  was  firm.  She  would 
not  have  him  with  her  every  day  unless  she 
could  tell  people  that  they  were  engaged. 
What  was  she  to  say  to  the  world  if,  after 
that  i4th  of  August,  he  were  to  be  engaged 
to  Mrs.  Dehon,  for  instance  ?  This  she  deli- 
cately hinted  ;  but,  moreover,  she  told  him 
she  had  promised  to  visit  the  Larneds,  at 
Pomfret,  and  the  Charles  Mt.  Vernons,  at 
Beverly,  and  to  spend  three  weeks  with  the 
Breezes,  at  Mount  Desert,  in  August.  He 
could  not  trail  about  after  her ;  and  it  was 
only  three  months,  after  all.  So  May  had 
consented,  with  an  ill  grace  ;  and  when  she 
left,  two  days  later,  he  found  nothing  better 
than  to  join  VanKnyper  on  a  yachting 
cruise.  Then  he  had  gone  up  on  the  Resti- 
gouche,  salmon-fishing;  and  on  the  i2th  of 
August  he  was  in  the  Maine  woods. 


II. 

THE   IDYL  OF  ANTEROS. 

IN  the  leisure  of  the  forest,  Austin  May 
reflected — for  the  first  time  comprehensively 
— upon  his  conduct  of  life.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  only  sensible  action  of  many 
wasted  years  was  his  getting  engaged  to 
Georgiana  Rutherford  ;  and  yet,  for  the  mo- 
ment, it  rather  added  to  his  perplexities. 
He  felt  convinced  that  Tom  Leigh  would 
say  it  put  him  in  a  greater  hole  than  ever. 
Here  was  he  engaged  to  three  women  at 
once,  and  all  the  engagements  matured  up- 
on the  fourteenth  day  of  August  proximo. 
Why  is  it  that  there  is  not  such  a  thing  as 
the  making  an  assignment  for  the  benefit  of 
one's  heart's  creditors  ?  He  might  then 
place  himself  in  the  hands  of  some  respecta- 
ble chaperone  as  assignee,  and  pay  each  of 
the  contracting  parties  thirty-three  per  cent. 
Or  he  might  even  get  a  composition,  or  an 


The  Idyl  of  Anteros.  103 

extension  at  long  time.  Possibly  the  other 
two  would  assign  their  claims  to  Georgi- 
ana.  If  she  were  the  sole  creditor,  he  fan- 
cied that  they  might  effect  an  arrangement. 
She  certainly  had  the  only  lien  on  the  few 
remaining  assets  of  his  hard-worked  ventri- 
cles. 

Georgiana  Rutherford  !  What  a  perfect- 
ly civilized  creature  she  was.  How  well 
she  would  look  at  the  end  of  the  state  din- 
ing-table  in  the  Brookline  house,  with  the 
epergne  in  front  of  her.  Then  how  grace- 
fully she  would  sweep  out,  at  the  head  of 
the  procession  of  ladies — Brookline  ladies, 
with  a  guest  or  two  from  Boston  or  Jamaica 
Plains — and  leave  him  and  his  friends  to 
their  bachelor-talk  and  cigars.  But  first, 
after  being  married,  he  had  promised  to 
take  her  up  the  Nile.  May  had  already 
been  up  the  Nile. 

May  slipped  off  the  rock  into  the  rushing 
river.  He  had  got  to  thinking,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  salmon,  and  forgotten  his  where- 
abouts. It  was  clumsy  of  him,  he  reflected,  as 
his  boots  queaked  soddenly  campward.  He 
was  getting  heavy,  and  slow,  and  middle- 
aged.  And  suddenly  he  felt  a  yearning  for 


104  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

the  wilds,  for  wilder  wilds  even  than  Aroos- 
took  County.  He  had  been  now  for  six 
years  in  high  civilizations — Japan,  India, 
England,  or,  at  worst,  the  States.  There 
were  several  dreams  of  his  scheming-time 
not  yet  effected.  Among  others,  a  trip 
from  Hudson's  Bay,  in  canoes,  through  the 
Great  Slave  lake  to  the  Pacific.  He  was 
almost  on  the  ground,  with  good  guides 
and  an  outfit ;  why  not  start  at  once  ?  But 
there  was  the  fourteenth  of  August  next  to 
come,  he  reflected. 

A  strange  wagon  was  in  the  camp  when 
he  got  back  ;  a  single  buckboard  from  the 
nearest  settlement,  and  it  bore  a  pretty 
girl.  May  had  conversation  with  her.  A 
veritable  Lady  of  the  Aristook  was  she ; 
not  over-idealized,  like  the  heroine  of  Mr. 
Howells.  Really,  she  had  a  certain  rudi- 
mentary charm.  Suppose,  thought  May, 
I  were  to  make  her  my  dusky  bride  ?  For 
dusky,  read  freckled. 

By  Jove,  thought  May — an  idea  indeed. 
If  he  gave  it  out  as  such  ?  If,  in  consider- 
ation of  a  trip  to  Boston,  new  bonnets,  and 
a  junket  of  quite  Merovingian  dimensions, 
she  were  to  consent  to  go  to  Brookline  and 


The  Idyl  of  Anteros.  105 

personate  his  bride,  for  that  day  only  ?  How 
natural  that  he,  at  the  very  end  of  his  eleven 
years,  should  have  plunged  into  nature  and 
married  la  premiere  venue.  It  was  just  the 
thing,  he  felt  assured  his  friends  would  say, 
that  he  was  certain  to  do.  Why,  even  the 
heroes  of  the  Lady  of  Aroostook  did  as 
much.  And  even  the  Comtesse  Polacca 
dei  Cascadegli  de  Valska  could  have  noth- 
ing to  reply  to  such  a  living  argument  as 
this  Maine  girl  would  present.  My  wife — 
Mrs.  Austin  May.  Gladys  Dehon  would 
scorn,  but  believe.  And  then,  having  nobly 
earned  her  reward,  his  salvatress  might  re- 
tire to  her  primitive  forest  decked  with  new 
fal-lals  to  astound  the  rustic  breast. 

But  now,  confound  it,  here  as  always,  the 
cursed  conventions  rose  in  his  way.  The 
proprieties  were  ever  his  fatality,  a  very 
ghost  of  Banquo  at  the  feast  of  life.  Why 
had  he  been  born  in  Boston  ?  True,  they 
had  once  saved  him  from  the  countess ; 
but  now  they  were  to  offer  him  a  humble 
sacrifice  to  her  unlovely  years.  For  she 
came  first  chronologically,  and  she  was  cer- 
tain to  come  first  in  fact. 

May  had  no  further  ideas  ;  and  he  had  to 


io6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

leave  his  river  at  the  height  of  the  salmon 
season. 

We  have  told  how,  on  the  i4th  of  August, 
he  arrived  at  Brookline,  true  to  his  appoint- 
ment with  all  three.  He  got  to  Boston 
late  in  the  evening  before,  went  to  his  club, 
passed  a  sleepless  night,  and  took  an  early 
morning  train  for  Brookline,  as  we  have 
seen. 

And,  perhaps,  as  we  have  also  seen,  a 
much  more  awkward  thing  than  this  had 
happened.  Austin  May  was  there,  ready 
to  meet  any  one  of  them.  The  period  of 
probation  required  by  the  will  had  elapsed. 

But  as  May  travelled  up  to  the  city  in 
that  hot  weather,  he  had  been  wondering 
to  himself  which  and  how  many  of  them 
he  should  see,  and  it  had  become  very  clear 
to  him  that  he  did  not  feel  the  least  desire 
to  see  any  one  of  the  three. 

His  uncle's  will  had  well  been  justified. 
With  shocked  shamefacedness  he  thought 
of  the  countess,  that  Trouville  heroine  that 
he  believed  to  be  little  better  than  an  ad- 
venturess, a  gambler,  tracked  by  the  police. 
And  Mrs.  Dehon — well,  if  Mrs.  Dehon  were 
to  ride  madly  up  that  quiet  Boston  lawn, 


The  Idyl  of  Anteros.  707 

May  felt  sure  that  he  should  flee  in  ter- 
ror. And  Georgiana  Rutherford — now  that 
it  came  to  the  point,  and  after  his  three 
months'  consideration,  May  did  not  feel 
that  he  wished  to  marry  even  Georgiana 
Rutherford. 

He  gave  little  thought  to  his  impending 
doom,  still  less  thought  of  escaping  it.  He 
wns  as  one  who  had  been  released  eleven 
years  upon  parole,  and  must  now  give  him- 
self up  to  be  shot.  He  even  gave  himself 
little  curiosity  as  to  whose  the  fatal  bullet 
would  prove  to  be.  A  man  ordered  out 
with  a  file  of  soldiers  to  be  executed  looks 
upon  the  levelled  row  of  muzzles  with  an 
absolute  impartiality.  He  was  in  the  posi- 
tion of  the  celebrated  d'Artagnan,  who,  hav- 
ing three  duels  in  the  Pre  aux  Clercs,  and 
certain  of  being  killed  by  Athos  at  12,  gave 
himself  little  anxiety  about  Porthos,  who 
was  to  follow  at  12.15,  or  Aramis,  who  was 
only  due  at  12.30. 

But,  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  the  reaction 
followed  the  artificial  strength  given  by 
many  cigars,  his  state  of  mind  had  approx- 
imated to  an  abject  and  unreasoning  ter- 
ror. And  in  this  mood  he  was,  late  in  the 


io8  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

afternoon,  when  he  turned  and  saw,  sta- 
tionary before  his  front  door,  that  carriage, 
with  its  footman  in  livery. 

His  one  instinct  was  to  conceal  himself. 
Nervously  he  grabbed  the  heavy  "  Burton's 
Anatomy  ; "  the  secret  door  swung  open  ; 
the  fountain  in  the  lake  began  to  play,  and 
in  a  score  of  seconds  May  was  hiding  in  its 
cool  and  watery  depths. 


III. 

THE    UNCERTAIN    GLORY  OF  A    NEW  YORK 
GIRL. 

WHEN  May  emerged  in  the  little  grass 
island,  screened  safely  by  the  play  of  falling 
waters,  he  was  breathless  with  the  run  ;  and 
his  heart  pounded  against  his  ribs  with  the 
violence  of  his  emotions.  The  countess  it 
unquestionably  was.  None  but  she  would 
arrive  in  open  carriage  and  pair  and  splen- 
did livery.  And  May  reckoned  he  would 
have  to  stay  there,  in  the  shelter  of  the 
fountain,  until  the  light  made  his  escape 
safe  and  possible.  As  for  seeing  her,  that 
was  out  of  the  question.  Had  he  still  cared 
for  Mrs.  Dehon,  he  might  have  choked  off 
the  other  one  ;  but  he  had  not  pluck  for  it 
now.  He  had  mildly  hoped  that  Gladys 
and  the  countess  might  have  arrived  at  the 
same  time  and  settled  it  between  them  ;  but 
Allah  had  willed  otherwise.  It  was  damp 


no  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

and  uncomfortable  upon  the  little  island, 
however,  without  even  a  cigar ;  and  he  did 
not  dare  go  back  to  the  pavilion. 

As  he  stood  peering  through  the  falling 
water  the  carriage  turned  about,  left  the 
house,  and  came  down  the  driveway.  May 
was  astounded.  He  tried  his  best  to  see 
who  was  in  it,  but  the  distance  was  too 
great.  He  fancied  that  he  made  out  a  fig- 
ure upon  the  back  seat,  but  it  was  that  of 
a  young  man.  He  was  surely  too  young 
for  Serge  ;  but,  possibly,  Serge  had  left  a 
son.  This,  indeed,  was  extremely  proba- 
ble. And  the  son  was  gone  to  the  gate  to 
await  more  formal  introduction  to  his  papa- 
in-lavv ;  and  had  left  the  countess  in  the 
house. 

This  was  the  most  terrible  possibility  that 
had  yet  occurred  to  his  fevered  imagination, 
overwrought  with  suspense  and  too  much 
tobacco  as  it  was.  For  a  moment  the  idea 
of  the  buggy  and  the  fast  horse  in  the  stable 
presented  itself  as  the  only  certain  means  of 
escape.  But  at  the  same  instant  he  saw 
Fides  emerge  from  the  side  door,  carrying 
something  white  in  his  mouth.  The  hound 
came  to  the  door  of  the  pavilion  and  scratched 


Of  a  New  York  Girl.  n  i 

there ;  not  finding  any  response,  he  took  to 
coursing  around  the  building,  in  wider  and 
wider  distances,  until  his  circle  included  the 
whole  pond.  When  he  had  once  more  made 
the  circuit  of  this,  without  getting  trail  of  his 
master,  he  lifted  his  nose  from  the  ground 
to  give  utterance  to  occasional  lugubrious 
howls. 

This  was  impossible.  Something  must 
be  done  at  once,  or  his  chief  retreat  would 
be  discovered.  May  rapidly  descended 
through  the  subterranean  passage,  and  ap- 
pearing at  the  door  of  the  pavilion,  whistled 
softly.  The  dog  bounded  toward  him,  and 
May  took  the  letter  from  his  mouth.  It 
was  accompanied  with  a  card  of  "  Mr.  Bur- 
lington Quincy,"  as  May  hurriedly  read. 
Now,  Mr.  Burlington  Quincy  bore  a  name 
utterly  unknown  to  Austin  May. 

He  looked  at  the  note.  It  was  certainly 
not  in  the  handwriting  of  Madame  Polacca 
de  Valska,  and  May  breathed  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief. He  opened  it. 

"Mr  DEAR  MR.  MAY  :  (it  began) 

"I  know  you  will  not  misinterpret  my  ac- 
tion, when  I  write  to  tell  you  that  our  en- 


ii2  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

gagement  cannot  be  made  known  to-day. 
The  bearer  of  this,  Mr.  Burlington  Quincy, 
of  Boston,  I  did  not  know  when  our  pleas- 
ant acquaintance  began  last  year,  but  I 
feel  sure  that  he  is  the  only  man  I  have 
ever " 

"  Loved,"  added  May  to  himself,  mechani- 
cally, as  the  first  page  came  to  an  end. 
Without  troubling  himself  to  read  any 
further,  he  merely  looked  at  the  signature, 
which  was,  "  yours  ever  sincerely,  Georgiana 
Rutherford." 

"Bah  !  "  said  Austin  to  himself  again,  and 
he  crumpled  up  the  letter  and  threw  it 
upon  the  pedestal  of  the  Venus  of  Milo. 
A  very  different  sort  of  girl  from  Georgy 
Rutherford,  she  looked  at  him  with  an  air 
of  dignity  offended  by  his  flippancy.  Cer- 
tainly a  great  weight  was  off  his  mind,  even 
if  it  did  leave  behind  the  faintest  conceiva- 
ble smart  of  irritation.  One,  at  least,  was 
disposed  of  satisfactorily,  and  he  threw  him- 
self into  the  great  arm-chair  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  He  wished  Miss  Rutherford  joy  of 
her  bargain,  though  he  could  not  but  think 
it  ill-bred  of  her  to  choose  the  replacing 
victim  as  the  messenger  of  his  release.  The 


Of  a  New  York  Girl.  113 

only  man  she  had  ever  loved,  indeed  I  And 
who  was  Mr.  Burlington  Quincy  ?  Well,  it 
mattered  little  to  him. 

May  looked  at  his  watch  ;  it  was  seven 
o'clock.  Only  five  hours  more  of  this 
awful  day  remained  !  His  condition  was 
one  of  absolute  nervous  prostration  ;  and 
he  looked  in  a  glass  to  see  if  his  hair  had 
yet  turned  gray.  Could  it  be  that  they 
would  none  of  them  appear  ?  He  felt 
almost  hungry,  but  that  eating  was  out  of 
the  question  for  one  in  his  position.  He 
could,  however,  take  a  biscuit  and  a  glass  of 
claret ;  and  this  he  did. 

But  May  was  fated  that  day  to  have  hard 
luck  with  his  uncle's  wine.  Hardly  had  he 
begun  to  sip  the  glass,  when  a  loud  knock- 
ing at  the  very  door  of  his  pavilion  made 
him  drop  it,  and  again  seek  refuge  in  his 
fountain  hiding-place.  From  there  he  looked 
through  the  jets  of  water  and  saw  that 
the  knocker  was  none  other  than  the  faith- 
ful Schmidt. 

May  hastened  back  again  to  the  pavilion 
and  opened  the  door. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  this?"  said  he, 
angrily.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  not  to  come 
8 


H4  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

out   under   any   circumstances,  unless    you 
heard  a  pistol-shot  ?  " 

But,  alas  !  The  effect  of  the  solitude,  the 
heat,  and  the  excitement  of  his  master's 
strange  behavior  had  been  too  much,  even 
for  the  perfect  valet.  Moreover,  he  had 
felt  it  his  duty  to  finish  all  his  master's  so 
precipitately  abandoned  bottles,  lest  they 
should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 
If  Mr.  Schmidt  was  not  tipsy,  it  was  clear 
that  he  soon  would  be.  He  had  been  lean- 
ing heavily  against  the  door,  and  as  his 
master  opened  it  suddenly,  he  fell  into  the 
room,  head  over  heels  to  the  floor;  and 
there,  without  getting  up,  he  endeavored  to 
bow  apologetically,  and  swayed  to  and  fro 
with  the  effort,  smiling  a  meaningless  smile 
and  holding  a  visiting-card  in  his  right 
hand.  May  took  it  mechanically.  It  was 
edged  in  deep  black  ;  and  upon  it  he  read 
the  simple  legend  : 

Mrs.  Terwilliger  Dehon. 


IV. 

THE   KEEPING  OF  THE   TRYST. 

MAY  grasped  the  half-drunken  valet  by 
the  coat.  "And  you  let  her  in  ?"  said  he. 

"  I  said,  m'sieu',1'  gasped  out  poor  Schmidt, 
"  that  m'sieu',  was  here." 

With  a  groan  of  mingled  rage  and  terror, 
May  flew  to  the  door  and  made  it  fast. 
Then  he  took  Schmidt  by  his  offending 
coat  and  shoved,  rather  than  led,  him  into 
the  subaqueous  passageway.  When  they 
emerged  upon  the  island,  May  said,  with  a 
final  shake  : 

"  Now,  sir,  go  and  tell  all  the  world  that 
I'm  not  at  home — d'ye  hear  ?  And  come 
back  and  tell  me  ;  and  that  you  may  come 
back  sober,  I'll  clear  your  thick  head  for 
you."  And  suiting  the  action  to  the  word, 
May  hurled  poor  Schmidt  through  the  cool 
jets  of  the  fountain  ;  and  he  disappeared 
with  a  startling  plunge  in  the  waters  of  the 


u6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

ornamental  lake.  They  were  but  a  few  feet 
deep,  however,  and  Schmidt  scrambled  to 
his  feet  and  went  wading  through  the  lily- 
pads  to  the  shore.  And  in  a  few  moments 
he  came  back,  still  wet,  but  quite  sobered,  to 
the  brink  nearest  the  island. 

"  What  does  she  say  ?  "  cried  May. 

"  That  she  will  wait  for  M'sieur,"  came 
back  the  answer  that  May  heard  ;  and  he 
sank  upon  the  rustic  seat  with  a  feeling  that 
all  was  over  with  him.  Should  he  still  fly  ? 
He  could  not  bring  himself  to  break  his 
word  at  this  late  hour.  If  it  could  be  that 
the  widowed  Mrs.  Dehon  had  come  all  this 
distance — unwomanly  as  it  was — he  could 
not  leave  her  now.  Moreover,  it  was  exactly 
like  her.  She  was  just  the  woman  to  take 
the  leap  herself,  rather  than  trust  herself  and 
her  heart-secrets  to  written  words.  And  as 
May  pulled  himself  together  and  went  to- 
ward the  house  he  wished  he  could  have 
conjured  back  one  spark  of  that  flame  he 
once  felt  for  her.  His  crusty  old  uncle 
had  not  foreseen  that  thus,  by  the  rash 
heir's  promise,  the  wise  provisions  of  his 
will  could  be  evaded.  What  would  his 
wise  uncle  have  done  in  a  similar  situa- 


The  Keeping  of  the  Tryst.          uj 

tion  ? — Ordered  a  monument  at  Mount  Au- 
burn and  prepared  the  remains  for  it  after- 
ward, perhaps.  His  head  was  too  cloudy 
to  think. 

May  reached  the  doors  of  the  house.  It 
was  already  dark  ;  and  he  had  one  last  mo- 
ment of  hesitation  as  he  pressed  his  hand 
upon  the  carved-oak  door-knob.  Then, 
with  a  rally  of  his  sense  of  honor,  he  turned 
it  and  entered  the  house. 

The  great  hall  was  quite  dark  ;  and  Aus- 
tin had  to  feel  his  way  to  the  dining-room, 
into  which,  as  being  the  only  habitable 
apartment,  Schmidt  had  had  to  show  the 
fair  Gladys.  Here  was  a  single  candle 
burning  ;  and  beyond  the  remains  of  what 
was  evidently  Schmidt's  dinner,  just  under 
the  Copley  portrait  of  the  lady  in  the  lilac 
dress,  sat  a  solitary  figure. 

But  May  started  back  as  he  saw  it.  It 
certainly  was  not  Gladys.  It  was — it  was  a 
man  ;  and  as  it  rose  and  came  forward  to  the 
candle-light  there  appeared  unmistakably 
the  red  face  and  pudgy  figure  of  her  elderly 
husband  !  For  a  moment  the  joyous  re- 
action held  May  speechless  ;  but  then  he 
sprang  forward. 


n8  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

"Mr.  Terwilliger  Dehon,  I  am  delighted 


to- 


But  Terwilliger  waved  him  back  with  the 
gesture  of  an  M.P.  quelling  an  assembly  of 
constituents  ;  and  in  his  hand  he  carried  a 
letter.  "  May  I  ask,  Mr.  May,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  ? "  And  Dehon  brought 
the  offending  document  close  beneath  May's 
nose,  lying  upon  his  chubby  palm  ;  and  then 
slapped  it  violently  with  his  other  hand. 

"Of  this  ?  "  said  May,  innocently.  "  What 
is  it?" 

"That,  sir,  is  a  letter  I  found  among  my 
wife's  effects."  And  beyond  all  question  the 
letter  was  in  May's  own  hand-writing.  May 
stared  helplessly  at  Dehon  ;  and  Terwilli- 
ger glared  fixedly  at  May.  And  through  all 
the  embarrassment  of  the  situation  loomed 
up  May's  consciousness,  antagonistic  as 
their  meeting  was,  that  he  was  uncommonly 
glad  to  see  him. 

"  Is — is  Mrs.  Dehon  with  you  ?  "  said  May, 
feebly,  as  the  awful  possibility  occurred  to 
him  that  they  had  been  divorced. 

"  My  beloved  wife  is  in  heaven,"  said 
Dehon,  pulling  out  a  large  pocket-handker- 
chief and  sinking  back  into  his  chair. 


The  Keeping  of  the  Tryst.          7/9 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  May,  grasping  both 
his  hands,  "  I  am — unfeignedly  sorry  to 
hear  it.  When  did " 

"  That,  sir,"  cried  Terwilliger,  furiously, 
"  is  no  answer  to  my  question.  Did  you,  or 
did  you  not,  write  this  letter  ? "  And  he 
jumped  from  his  chair  and  smacked  the 
letter  savagely  against  the  dinner-table. 

Evasion  was  impossible.  "  I  am  afraid, 
Mr.  Dehon,  that  I  did."  Dehon  fumed. 
"  And  now,  my  dear  sir,"  said  May,  his 
face  unconsciously  broadening  to  a  smile, 
"will  you  not  stay  and  dine  with  me?  I 
have  only " 

But  at  this  the  peppery  old  gentleman 
positively  sailed  off  the  floor  in  his  passion. 
In  vain  May  told  him  that  he  had  received 
nothing  from  the  late  Mrs.  Dehon  but  a 
long  course  of  snubs  ;  in  vain  May  assured 
him  that  he  himself  was  more  delighted  than 
ever  Mr.  Dehon  could  be,  that  there  had 
never  been  a  possibility  of  his  marrying  the 
lamented  Gladys  ;  it  was  to  no  purpose  that 
he  besought  him  to  stay  and  dine.  He  tried 
to  sympathize  with  Terwilliger  in  his  loss, 
and  Terwilliger  grew  only  the  more  in- 
furiated.  He  pointed  out  to  him  that  his 


120  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

letter  had  been  entirely  contingent,  to  take 
effect  solely  upon  Mr.  Terwilliger's  death  ; 
but  upon  this  the  old  gentleman  fairly 
choked  with  rage. 

Finally  poor  Austin  gave  it  up.  He 
abandoned  all  effort  to  pacify  him,  and  lis- 
tened submissively  to  the  philippic  the  in- 
dignant Tervvilliger  poured  forth.  And,  to 
use  the  expressive  but  inelegant  phrase  of 
the  day,  he  blew  himself  off  right  well.  Aus- 
tin sat  and  listened  with  a  mind  at  peace. 

A  man's  own  eloquence  is  a  great  relief, 
and  there  is  no  knowing  how  far  Mr.  Dehon 
would  have  cooled  off  in  time.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  he  would  have  ended  by  staying 
to  dinner.  But,  just  as  he  was  finishing  a 
most  effective  exordium,  the  noise  of  car- 
riage-wheels was  heard  outside  upon  the 
gravel. 

In  two  strides  May  was  at  the  window, 
had  thrown  open  the  sash  with  a  crash  that 
shivered  all  the  glass,  and  hurled  himself 
through  it  into  outer  darkness,  leaving  the 
astounded  Mr.  Dehon,  one  eloquent  arm  ex- 
tended in  the  air,  addressing  himself  most 
earnestly  to  the  four  Copley  portraits  and 
the  two  battle-pieces  of  indigestible  fruit. 


V. 

THE   RETURN   OF  THE  COUNTESS. 

BEYOND  all  question  this  was  now  the 
Comtesse  Polacca  de  Valska.  She  was  the 
only  one  left.  All  others  were  present  or 
accounted  for.  Again  May  gained  his  pa- 
vilion, with  the  fleetness  of  an  Exmoor  deer  ; 
it  was  quite  dark  by  this  time,  and  he  could 
run  about  fearlessly.  With  a  trembling  hand 
he  adjusted  his  dark-lantern,  lit  the  lamp,  and 
fixed  the  focus  full  upon  the  house-front 
door. 

He  was  just  in  time  to  see  a  veiled  and 
much  beshawled  lady  assisted  down  from 
the  vehicle  that  stood  at  the  door  ;  and  after 
a  word  of  colloquy  with  the  driver,  she  en- 
tered the  house.  May  could  not  see  her 
face  ;  but  it  was  just  the  figure,  he  fancied, 
of  the  Countess  de  Valska.  The  carriage 
drove  away,  the  front  door  closed,  and  all 
again  was  silent,  save  the  thumping  of  poor 
Austin's  strained  and  shaken  heart.  Great 


122  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

heavens !  he  complained  to  the  harmless 
Venus  of  Milo.  The  worst  had  been  real- 
ized indeed. 

This  time  there  was  no  indecision.  The 
only  safety  lay  in  flight.  When  it  came  to 
the  point  of  marrying  the  de  Valska,  he 
would  be  damned  if  he  would.  No  sooner 
had  he  gained  this  conclusion  than  he 
sought  to  put  it  in  practice.  With  quick 
and  stealthy  steps  he  gained  the  stable.  A 
drive  of  fifteen  miles  to  Framingham  would 
put  him  on  the  New  York  train  ;  and  the 
Umbria  sailed  on  the  morrow.  Little  diffi- 
culties with  countesses  were  better  under- 
stood on  European  shores. 

But  alas!  it  was  only  to  find  that  the 
stable-door  was  locked.  He  could  hear  in- 
side the  noises  of  a  restless  horse,  but  bath 
fast  horse  and  buggy  were  beyond  his  reach. 
The  over-cautious  Schmidt  had  lcvck;ed  them 
in,  and  taken  the  key.  May's  fceart  sank. 
He  looked  around  for  ant  ax;-e,  a  log,  any- 
thing to  batter  down  the  door  with — he 
would  have  set  fire;  to,  his  own  stable  if 
necessary  ;  then  a  brilliant  thought  occurred 
to  him — of  the-  pistol-shot  that  was  to  be  the 
signal  to  Sch.mid:t  Jn  cases  of  emergency. 


Tbe  Return  of  the  Countess.         123 

He  ran  back  to  the  pavilion.  As  he  passed 
the  house  he  thought  he  heard  sounds  of 
angry  collocation  in  the  entry.  But  this 
was  no  time  for  idle  curiosity  ;  and  he  ran 
on  to  the  pavilion,  grasped  the  revolver, 
ran  back  before  the  house,  placed  himself  in 
the  little  clump  of  pines,  and  fired.  The 
noises  in  the  house  ceased.  He  fired  again. 

The  second  report  of  his  revolver  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  wild  and  shrill  screaming  in  the 
house.  A  second  after,  the  front  door  was 
violently  flung  open,  and  Mr.  Terwilliger 
Dehon  burst  forth  with  the  celerity  of  a 
pellet  from  a  pop-gun.  He  was  immedi- 
ately and  closely  pursued  by  a  female  fig- 
ure, screaming  violently.  After  her,  all  in 
the  focus  of  the  dark-lantern,  appeared  a 
gaunt  and  stooping  individual  with  a  shot- 
gun, which  he  brought  to  his  shoulder  and 
incontinently  fired,  aiming,  as  far  as  May 
could  judge,  at  the  North  Star.  Then  he 
threw  away  the  shot-gun  and  joined  in  the 
pursuit ;  and  after  him  came  the  faithful 
Schmidt,  in  obedience  to  his  master's  signal, 
once  more  unperturbed. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  cried  May,  rush- 
ing forward.  "  Where  is  she  ? " 


I2j  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  feminine  arms  were 
thrown  around  his  neck,  a  fainting  feminine 
figure  hung  about  his  shoulder,  and  femi- 
nine lips  whispered  in  his  ear : 

"At  last!" 

With  a  gasp  of  despair,  May  disengaged 
her  and  led  her  to  the  front  door,  where  he 
deposited  his  precious  burden  upon  the 
china  garden-seat.  The  countess  seemed 
less  graceful  than  of  yore,  and  she  certainly 
was  heavier.  But  the  countess,  of  course 
it  was. 

"  Sech  a  time,  Mr.  May,"  said  she.  "  Me 
a-comin'  up  with  the  depot-man,  and  findin" 
a  burglar  in  the  house  ;  an'  the  volleys  from 
the  ambushes  as  was  outside  ;  an'  Mr.  East- 
man a-runnin'  for  his  gun,  an'  I  chasin'  the 
burglar  ;  an'  all  along  of  that  furriner  in  the 
kitchen  as  left  the  cellar-door  wide  open  ; 
an',  says  I " 

"  Mrs.  Eastman  !  "  cried  May,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  as  if  he  saw  the  dawn  again.  But 
that  heroine's  short-lived  valor  was  exhaust- 
ed. To  chase  an  elderly  burglar  out  one's 
own  front  door,  amid  salvoes  of  musketry, 
was  surely  excuse  enough  for  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  first  reliable  male  one 


The  Return  of  the  Countess.         125 

met  and  knew  ;  but  the  thought  of  both 
actions  was  too  much  for  feminine  nerves, 
and  Mrs.  Eastman  proceeded  to  get  up  the 
best  notion  of  hysterics  her  Maine  training 
could  produce.  As  for  May,  he  was  so  glad 
that  it  was  not  the  Polacca  de  Valska  that 
he  could  have  kissed  even  the  elderly  house- 
keeper ;  but  he  thought  better  of  it,  and 
consigned  her  to  the  tender  soothing  of  her 
husband. 

"Mirandy,"  he   heard  Mr.  Eastman  say, 
"don't  ve  be  a  fool!" 


£ccne  fiffi 
THE   RESIDUARY   BEQUEST 


I. 

THE    ORDER   OF    DISCHARGE. 

MAY  went  back  again  to  his  pavilion. 
Great  heavens,  what  a  day  !  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  already  after  ten  o'clock  ; 
and  his  heart  gave  a  leap  of  joy.  Could  it 
be  that  the  countess  would  never  turn  up  at 
all? 

He  was  too  much  shaken  by  the  excite- 
ments of  the  day  to  sit  still  quietly,  and 
count  the  minutes ;  so  he  took  to  wander- 
ing in  the  drive-way  about  the  lake.  He 
was  conscious  of  a  marvellous  accession  of 
spirits!  Poor  Mr.  Terwilliger  Dehon!  And 
May  laughed  to  himself  as  he  pictured  their 
meeting,  and  the  Eastmans  taking  him  for 
a  burglar.  What  could  she  have  done  to 
drive  Dehon  in  such  terror  from  the  house  ? 
May  wondered  what  had  become  of  him, 
and  looked  with  some  apprehension  lest 
lie  should  have  rushed  into  the  lily-pond. 
9 


ijo  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

But  that  was  impossible  in  so  light  a  night. 
Moreover,  he  could  have  waded  out.  Well, 
well !  he  never  should  have  known  how  to 
get  rid  of  him.  Peace  to  his  widower's 
weeds. 

The  harvest  moon  had  risen,  and  shone 
brightly  on  the  familiar  fields.  Beauty  is 
only  relished  by  the  free.  How  strong  and 
sweet  is  our  memory  for  places  1  Each  swell 
of  grassy  hill  seemed  like  an  old  playmate  ; 
the  very  contour  of  the  masses  of  elm-foli- 
age, darkly  outlined  under  the  moon,  seemed 
all  familiar  to  him.  Every  time  that  May 
walked  by  the  main  gate-way,  with  the  iron 
cannon-balls,  he  looked  nervously  through 
it ;  but  the  white,  shady  road  was  clean  and 
empty,  and  the  night  was  still. 

His  fortune  was  almost  too  great  to  be 
believed  in,  and  he  looked  frequently  at  his 
watch,,  and  listened  timidly  for  every  sound. 
Had  the  countess  forgotten  him  ?  Had  she 
captured  another?  Well,, Gladys  was  dead, 
and  Georgiana  "was  married  ;"  and  he  sat 
there, "  dipping  his  nose  in  the  Gascon  wine  " 
— still  seven  years  short  of  "  forty  year." 

But  the  night  waxed  and  the  moon  rose 
higher,  and  the  white  mists  began  to  drift 


The  Order  of  Discharge.  131 

in,  stilly,  from  the  distant  river ;  and  there 
was  yet  no  manifestation  of  the  Countess 
Polacca  de  Valska. 

And  at  last  the  village  church  rang  out 
twelve  bells  ;  and  the  cocks  crew  ;  and  May 
pitched  his  cigar  into  the  lake  with  a  sigh 
that  resembled  a  benediction.  The  day  was 
over.  That  most  terrible  twenty-four  hours 
of  his  life  was  safely  passed.  He  could  go 
to  bed  and  sleep  serenely,  in  the  conscious- 
ness that  no  one  of  his  idle  old  dreams  was 
to  be  realized,  that  no  folly  of  his  past  was 
to  assume  shape  and  confront  him  now. 
And  all  his  arsenal  of  weapons,  his  labora- 
tory of  drugs,  his  store-house  of  Dutch 
courage,  had  proved  unnecessary. 

He  walked  along  by  the  margent  of  the 
little  lake  ;  and  as  he  did  so,  a  thought 
struck  him.  He  entered  the  pavilion  and 
set  the  fountain  playing,  in  celebration  of 
his  deliverance.  He  threw  open  all  the 
shutters  and  the  wide  door — useless  precau- 
tions now — and  the  flood  of  moonlight 
streamed  again  into  the  familiar  old  hall. 
He  looked  about  at  the  misanthropic  pict- 
ures, and  the  moonlight  fell  fair  upon  the 
beautiful  Venus  of  Milo  in  the  corner.  He 


/^2  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

looked  again  at  the  old  will,  and  Georgiana 
Rutherford's  note,  and  Mrs.  Dehon's  visit- 
ing-card lying  beside  it.  Through  such 
various  fortunes  had  he  tended  into  La- 
tium. 

He  patted  Fides  on  his  massive  head,  as 
the  dog  walked  along  beside  him.  He  went 
back  into  the  house.  It  was  all  his  own 
now  ;  all  his  own,  and  untrammelled.  He 
called  his  valet  to  him. 

"  Schmidt,"  said  he,  "  I  am  not  going  to 
sit  up  any  longer.  If  anyone  comes,  I  have 
been  here  and  gone — you  understand  1  I 
have  gone — to  Arizona."  Schmidt  bowed. 
He  had  regained  his  imperturbability,  and 
was  fearful  of  being  discharged.  An  Amer- 
ican servant  would  have  left,  and  brought 
an  action  for  his  ducking;  not  so  the  obse- 
quious Oriental.  And  Austin  May  took  his 
candle  and  went  quietly  to  bed.  He  had 
kept  his  tryst  honorably  ;  he  had  made  due 
tender  of  himself;  and  by  all  laws,  human 
and  divine,  his  three  offers  of  marriage  had 
now  expired. 


II. 

A  PRIOR   MORTGAGE. 

OUR  hero  sank  comfortably  into  the  great 
old-fashioned  bed,  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that 
he  could  sleep  at  last  in  peace.  The  broad 
windows  were  opened,  and  the  moonlight  lay 
across  the  lawn ;  and  from  it  came  the 
speech  of  insects,  and  of  summer  birds  ;  far 
off,  one  whip-poor-will. 

If  anyone  ever  deserved  sleep,  he  thought 
that  he  did  ;  but  this  is  not  a  world  where 
we  get  our  deserts.  All  night  long  he  lay 
awake.  His  mind  would  go  from  his  infat- 
uation with  the  de  Valska  to  his  passion 
for  poor  Gladys  Dehon  ;  from  the  Exmoor 
hounds  to  his  engagement  with  Miss  Ruth- 
erford. He  was  devoutly  thankful  that  he 
had  escaped  them  all,  and  yet  the  peace  he 
had  expected  did  not  come.  He  heard  the 
familiar  old  church-bell  strike  two,  and  three, 
and  four,  as  he  had  heard  it  in  his  boyhood, 


i$4  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

when  wakeful  for  a  fishing-excursion,  or  for 
some  country  ride.  What  was  he  to  do  next  ? 

He  could  not  analyze  his  state  of  mind. 
The  night  hours  passed,  and  still  he  lay 
there  wondering.  The  whip-poor-will  had 
some  time  been  silent ;  suddenly,  as  if  at  a 
wave  of  an  unseen  baton,  the  orchestra  of 
day  birds  fell  to  singing.  May  listened  ;  in 
eleven  years  he  had  not  heard  them.  Then, 
as  suddenly,  they  stopped.  And  then  the 
dawn  came,  one  ray  of  orange  sunlight,  and 
the  fragrance  of  the  new-born  day. 

At  last  he  rose,  impatiently,  and  went  to 
the  wide  window.  The  sunbeams  slid  be- 
neath the  arching  elms  and  slanted  through 
the  sward.  Such  scenes  had  been  wont  to 
make  him  happy  when  he  was  young — and 
when  he  was  in  love.  This  was  a  strange 
mood  for  him  at  thirty-three  and  free — a 
mood  of  melancholy,  almost  a  loneliness. 

Even  his  cold  bath  failed  to  restore  him. 
He  was  glad  they  had  none  of  them  come  ; 
he  was  certain  of  that.  And  yet 

As  he  was  dressing,  he  opened  the  closet 
door.  There  was  the  broad  straw  hat,  with 
its  pink  ribbons,  still  hanging,  faded,  on  the 
nail  ;  and  suddenly  he  recognized  it.  He 


A  Prior  Mortgage, 

took  it  down,  and  looked  at  it  curiously  ; 
and  as  he  sat  there,  holding  it  in  his  hands, 
the  great  St  Bernard  dog  came  up  and 
sniffed  at  it.  It  was  May  Austin's.  And  as 
Austin  sat  there,  lie  remembered  that  he 
had  loved  her. 

He  walked  out  upon  the  lawn  again, 
brushing  the  dews  upon  the  grass.  Fool 
that  he  was !  First  loves  were  best,  after  all. 

But  where  was  she  ?  He  had  not  heard 
from  her  for  years.  He  had  never  even 
written,  after  the  Trouville  episode.  And 
she — she  must  have  divined  that  he  was 
false.  First  loves  were  best.  Oh,  cruel 
Uncle  Austin !  Yet  his  own  wretched 
fickleness  was  the  most  to  blame,  after  all. 
His  uncle  was  a  cynic  ;  but  he  had  been  a 
young  man  in  love. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  sure — though  he  had 
taken  eleven  years  to  find  it  out.  Wherever 
she  might  be,  throughout  the  world,  there 
he  would  find  her.  And  he  knew  now  what 
had  been  in  his  mind,  that  yesterday,  when 
he  had  walked  beside  the  lily-pond,  along 
the  soft  path  no  longer  trod  by  her.  Where 
could  she  be  ?  First  loves  were  best.  And 
he  fell  into  a  reverie. 


i}6  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

He  was  still  holding  the  hat  in  his  hand, 
and  Fides  came  up  again  and  sniffed  at  it. 
There  was  something  in  his  mouth — was  it 
a  glove  ? 

May  took  the  glove,  and  almost  thought 
he  recognized  it.  It  was  a  woman's  glove, 
a  garden-glove  with  a  long  arm — where  had 
he  found  it  ? 

The  dog  looked  up  at  him,  almost  as  if 
he  read  his  thoughts,  and  then  he  led  the 
way  and  Austin  followed.  He  went  across 
the  lawn,  and  through  the  hedge,  to  the 
well-remembered  seat  in  the  orchard,  by  the 
linden-tree,  and  there  he  stopped.  And 
May  sat  down  upon  the  seat  and  dreamed. 

An  hour  he  sat  there,  and  then  he  saw  a 
figure  coming  through  the  field.  And  his 
heart  told  him  that  this  was  May  Austin. 
She  did  not  see  him,  and  he  waited  there. 

When  she  came  out  from  under  the  last 
apple-tree,  he  saw  her  stop  and  waver.  She 
was  lovelier  still  than  he  remembered  her, 
and  he  went  up  to  her  and  took  her  hand. 
She  blushed,  and  he  could  feel  it  tremble  as 
it  lay  in  his. 

"  I — I  thought  you  were  abroad,"  said  she. 

"  I  have  come  back,"  he  answered,  simply. 


III. 

THE    POSTHUMOUS    JEST. 

AN  hour  later  Schmidt  was  sitting  by  the 
front  door,  smoking  his  long  pipe,  when  he 
thought  he  saw  his  master  crossing  the 
lawn  along  the  lily-pond.  But  he  was 
walking  hand  in  hand  with  a  young  lady. 
The  long  pipe  dropped  from  Schmidt's 
hand  ;  and 

"  Potztausend  !  " 

The  imperturbable  valet  was  moved  to 
say  as  much  as  this,  but  of  further  speech 
remained  incapable.  May  approached. 

"  Schmidt,  you  will  go  to  town  and  get 
the  rest  of  my  luggage." 

The  valet  only  stared. 

"And  after  this  I  shall  not  need  your 
services.  I  will  find  you  a  good  place  (with 
some  of  my  bachelor  friends,"  thought  May  ; 
"  poor  devils  !  ").  Schmidt  still  stood  there, 
his  broken  pipe  upon  the  door-step. 


138  Tl)e  Residuary  Legatee. 

"  Do  you  hear  what  I  say  ? " 

Schmidt  made  an  effort.  "There  is  a 
letter  for  monsieur — in  the  pavilion."  A 
letter !  May  trembled  to  himself  once 
more. 

'"  I  must  go  home,"  said  May  Austin,  still 
blushing  violently.  She  lived  in  a  cottage 
there,  near  by,  that  she  had  bought  with 
her  slender  fortune.  But  May  begged  her 
to  wait  until  he  had  gone  to  the  pavilion, 
and  then  he  would  go  with  her.  He  feared 
that  he  knew  what  the  letter  was.  But  it 
had  come  too  late  !  A  thousand  countesses 
could  not  bind  him  now. 

Coming  thither,  May  sat  upon  the  door- 
step, and  Austin  opened  the  letter. 

LAW  OFFICES  OF  VESEY  &  BEAMES. 
3  COURT  STREET,  BOSTON, 

August  14,  1886. 

AUSTIN  MAY,  Esq. ,  Brookline,  Mass. 

DEAR  SIR  :  The  eleven  years'  delay  required  by  the 
will  of  your  late  uncle,  John  Austin,  having  expired  to- 
day, I  have  much  satisfaction  in  sending  you  a  copy 
(herein  enclosed)  of  the  document  contained  in  the  sealed 
envelope  referred  to  in  said  will,  and  constituting  his  re- 
siduary legatee  ;  although,  as  I  am  informed  that  you 
have  never  married,  the  residuary  clause  of  the  will  does 


The  Posthumous  Jest. 

not  take  effect.  The  executors  hold  themselves  in  readi- 
ness to  deliver  over  to  you  all  the  securities  and  title- 
deeds  representing  your  uncle's  estate  upon  receiving 
from  you  an  affidavit  that  you  have  not,  up  to  date,  con- 
tracted a  legal  marriage. 

I  have  some  embarrassment  in  speaking  to  you  of  an- 
other aspect  of  this  case,  and  can  only  hope  you  will 
think  I  acted  for  the  best  You  will  remember  that  imme- 
diately after  your  uncle's  death,  I  sent  you  a  copy  of  the 
will  as  it  was  filed  for  probate.  But  when  it  came  to  a 
hearing  I  found  that  the  court  utterly  refused  to  allow 
probate  of  a  will  which  contained  as  a  most  important  part 
the  contents  of  a  sealed  letter,  left  in  my  custody,  and  the 
purport  of  which  was  unknown  to  the  court.  His  honor 
intimated  that  he  considered  the  will  ridiculous  in  tenor 
and  inartificial  in  structure  ;  and  that  it  was  at  least  ques- 
tionable whether  the  residuary  devise  was  not  void,  as  de- 
pendent upon  a  condition  in  restraint  of  marriage.  It  was 
in  vain  that  I  cited  the  case  where  a  man  chalked  his  will 
upon  his  own  barn-door,  and  the  barn-door  having  been 
brought  into  court  and  copied  was  allowed  to  be  replaced 
upon  its  hinges.  The  court  wholly  objected  to  being 
made,  as  it  were,  a  confidant  of  Mr.  Austin's  love  pro- 
jects ;  and  insisted  that  the  sealed  letter  should  be  opened 
then  and  there,  and  read  to  the  court,  and  appended  to 
the  will  and  filed  away  with  it.  Accordingly  this  was 
done. 

But  I  conceived  that  I  should  be  best  following  out  the 
wishes  of  your  uncle  and  my  old  friend  by  not  telling  you 
of  this.  Suspecting  that  it  would  never  occur  to  you  to 
inspect  the  court  records,  the  reporters  were  paid  for 
their  silence,  and  although  you  might  at  any  time  during 
the  past  eleven  years  have  read  this  sealed  envelope,  your 


140  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

continued  absence  abroad  leads  me  to  hope  that  you  have 
never  done  so. 

I  am,  sir,  with  great  respect, 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  VESEY,  JR. 

Austin  May  dropped  the  letter  from  his 
hands  and  looked  at  May.  "  I  might  have 
known  it  any  time  these  eleven  years," 
said  he. 

"  Known  what  ?  "  said  she,  picking  up 
the  enclosure,  which  had  fluttered  to  the 
floor. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  as  well,"  gasped  Austin  ; 
and  he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  Mrs. 
Terwilliger  and  the  scheming  Countess. 
He  took  the  paper  from  May's  hands  and 
read  as  follows  : 

"  I,  John  Austin,  gentleman,  hereby  in- 
corporate this  sealed  writing,  referred  to  in 
my  will  of  even  date  herewith,  as  part  of 
my  said  will.  Having  provided  in  such  my 
will  that  in  the  event  of  my  said  nephew, 
Austin  May,  becoming  married  before  he 
attain  the  age  of  thirty-five,  or  before  the 
period  of  eleven  years  shall  have  elapsed 
from  the  date  of  my  death,  whichever  shall 
first  happen,  all  my  property,  real  and  per- 


The  Posthumous  Jest  141 

sonal,  except  my  said  bin  of  Lafite  claret, 
shall  go  to  my  residuary  legatee  ;  and  hav- 
ing observed  a  certain  tenderness  existing 
between  my  said  nephew,  Austin  May,  and 
my  said  niece,  May  Austin,  I  hereby  nomin- 
ate and  create  my  dear  niece,  May  Austin, 
as  such  my  residuary  legatee — in  the  hope 
that  as  I,  marrying  without  love,  have  been 
unhappy,  they,  my  said  niece  and  nephew, 
marrying  for  love  alone,  giving  up  all 
thoughts  of  worldly  advantage,  may  enjoy 
the  blessings  of  this  world  besides." 

The  paper  slipped  from  Austin's  hands. 

"  To  think  that  I  have  waited  eleven 
years  !  "  said  he.  And  he  struck  his  hand 
against  his  forehead. 

But  May  Austin  looked  up  to  him  and 
smiled. 

Of  the  Countess  Polacca  de  Valska,  Aus- 
tin never  heard.  Terwilliger  Dehon  re- 
married, and,  for  the  second  time,  a  very 
pretty  woman  ;  such  men  always  do.  The 
Burlington  Quincys  have  also  been  mar- 
ried ;  and  Tom  Leigh  has  come  to  stay  at 
Brook  line  for  this  season  ;  and  Mrs  East- 
man's rei<ni  is  ended  :  but  Fides  is  an  hou- 


/^2  The  Residuary  Legatee. 

ored  inmate  of  the  Brookline  house.  And 
if  you  drive  by  there,  some  summer  after- 
noon, you  will  note  once  more  about  the 
windows  those  frilled  and  pleated  things 
that  denote  the  presence  of  a  woman's  hand. 


THE    END. 


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> 

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the  fine  points  of  artistic  skill  which  make  this  study  so  wonderful 
in  its  insight,  so  rare  in  its  combination  of  dramatic  power  and 
tenderness." — The  Critic. 

Hjalmar  H.  Boyesen. 

FALCONBERG.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $I.50)-GUNNAR.  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.25)- 
TALES  FROM  TWO  HEMISPHERES.  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00)—  ILKA  ON 
THE  HILL  TOP,  and  Other  Stories.  (Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00)— QUEEN  TITANIA 
(Sq.  I2mo,  $1.00). 

"Mr.  Boyesen's  stories  possess  a  sweetness,  a  tenderness,  and  a 
drollery  that  are  fascinating,  and  yet  they  are  no  jnore  attractive 
than  they  are  strong." — The  Home  Journal. 


2         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST   OF    FICTION. 

H.  C.  Bunner. 

THE  STORY  OF  A  NEW  YORK  HOUSE.  Illustrated  by  A.  B.  Frost  (I2mo, 
$1.25)— THE  MIDGE.  (I2mo,  $1.00)— IN  PARTNERSHIP.  With  Brander 
Matthews  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"  It  is  Mr.  Banner's  delicacy  of  touch  and  appreciation  of  what 
is  literary  art  that  give  his  writings  distinctive  quality.  Everything 
Mr.  Bunner  paints  shows  the  happy  appreciation  of  an  author  who 
has  not  alone  mental  discernment,  but  the  artistic  appreciation. 
The  author  and  the  artist  both  supplement  one  another  in  this  ex- 
cellent '  Story  of  a  New  York  House.'  " — The  New  York  Times. 


Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 

THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S.  Illustrated  (paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.251- 
HAWORTH'S.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.25)— THROUGH  ONE  ADMINISTRA- 
TION. (I2mo,  $1.50)— LOUISIANA.  (I2mo,  $1.25)— A  FAIR  BARBARIAN. 
(I2mo,  $1.25)— SURLY  TIM,  and  Other  Stories  (I2mo,  $1.25). 

The  above  6  vols.,  in  uniform  binding,  §7.30  per  set. 

LITTLE  LORD  FAUNTLEROY.  Illustrated  by  R.  B.  Birch  (Sq.  8vo,  $2.00)— 
SARA  CREWE;  or,  What  Happened  at  Miss  Minchin's.  Illustrated  by 
R.  B.  Birch  (Sq.  8vo,  $1.00). 

Earlier  Stories  by  the  same  author,  each  i6mo,  paper  covers. 

LINDSAY'S  LUCK  (30  cts.)-PRETTY  POLLY  PEMBERTON  (40  cts.)- 
KATHLEEN  (40  cts.)— THEO  (30  cts.)— MISS  CRESPIGNY  (30  cts.). 

"Mrs.  Burnett  discovers  gracious  secrets  in  rough  and  forbidding 
natures — the  sweetness  that  often  underlies  their  bitterness — the  soul 
of  goodness  in  things  evil.  She  seems  to  have  an  intuitive  percep- 
tion of  character.  If  we  apprehend  her  personages,  and  I  think  we 
do  clearly,  it  is  not  because  she  describes  them  to  us,  but  because 
they  reveal  themselves  in  their  actions.  Mrs.  Burnett's  characters 
are  as  veritable  as  Thackeray's." — RICHARD  HENRY  STODDARD. 


William  Allen  Butler. 

DOMESTICUS.    A  Tale  of  the  Imperial  City    (I2mo,  $1.25.). 

"  Under  a  veil  made  intentionally  transparent,  the  author  main- 
tains a  running  fire  of  good-natured  hits  at  contemporary  social 
follies.  There  is  a  delicate  love  story  running  through  the  book. 
The  author's  style  is  highly  finished.  One  might  term  it  old-fashioned 
in  its  exquisite  choiceness  and  precision." — The  New  York  Journal 
of  Commerce. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.         3 

George  W.  Cable. 

THE  GRANDISSIMES.  (I2mo,  $1.25)— OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.  (I2mo,  cloth, 
$1.25;  also  in  two  parts,  I6mo.  cloth,  each,  75  cts.;  paper,  each,  30  cts.) — 
DR.  SEVIER.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— BONAVENTURE.  A 
Prose  Pastoral  of  Acadian  Louisiana  (I2mo,  $1.25). 

The  set,  4  vols.,  $5.00. 

"There  are  few  living  American  writers  who  can  reproduce  for 
us  more  perfectly  than  Mr.  Cable  does,  in  his  best  moments,  the 
speech,  the  manners,  the  whole  social  atmosphere  of  a  remote  time 
and  a  peculiar  people.  A  delicious  flavor  of  humor  penetrates  his 
stories,  and  the  tragic  portions  are  handled  with  rare  strength." — The 
New  York  Tribune. 

Mary  Mapes  Dodge. 

THEOPHILUS  AND  OTHERS.     (I2mo,  $1.50.) 

"  Mrs.  Dodge  has  a  marked  gift  of  being  constantly  entertaining. 
There  is  a  certain  spiciness  and  piquancy  of  flavor  in  her  work  which 
makes  even  the  slightest  things  that  come  from  her  pen  pleasant  and 
profitable  reading." — The  New  York  Evening  Post. 

Edward  Eggleston. 

ROXY.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50)— THE  CIRCUIT  RIDER.  Illustrated  (I2mo, 
$1.50)— THE  HOOSIER  SCHOOLMASTER.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.25)— 
THE  MYSTERY  OF  METROPOLISVILLE.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50)— THE 
END  OF  THE  WORLD.  Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.50). 

The  set,  3  vols. ,  $7.23. 

"Dr.  Eggleston's  career  as  a  novelist  has  been  a  peculiar  one. 
His  first  work  achieved  a  swift  and  unmistakable  success.  Its  fresh 
and  vivid  portraiture  of  a  phase  of  life  and  manners,  hitherto  almost 
unrepresented  in  literature ;  its  boldly  contrasted  characters ;  its 
unconventional,  hearty,  religious  spirit,  and  its  reflection  of  the 
vigorous  individuality  of  the  author,  took  hold  of  the  public  imagina- 
tion."—  The  Christian  Union. 

Erckmann-Cbatrian. 

FRIEND  FRITZ— THE  CONSCRIPT.  Illustrated— WATERLOO.  Illustrated 
(Sequel  to  The  Conscript)— MADAME  THERESE— THE  BLOCKADE  OF 
PHALSBURG.  Illustrated— THE  INVASION  OF  FRANCE  IN  1814.  Illus- 
trated-A  MILLER'S  STORY  OF  THE  WAR.  Illustrated. 

Each,  I2mo,  $1.25. 

"  Not  only  are  these  stories  interesting  historically,  but  intrin- 
sically they  present  pleasant,  well-constructed  plots,  serving  in  each 
case  to  connect  the  great  events  which  they  so  graphically  treat."— 
The  Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


4         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION; 

Harold  Frederic. 

SETH'S  BROTHER'S  WIFE.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"A  novel  that  stands  out  in  clear  relief  against  the  fiction  of  the 
time.  It  is  made  of  tangible  stuff,  is  serious  without  being  heavy, 
brisk  and  interesting  without  being  flippant ;  takes  hold  of  real  life 
with  an  easy  yet  firm  and  confident  grasp  that  denotes  judicial  habits 
of  thought  as  well  as  a  comfortable  mastery  of  the  literary  medium. " 
—  The  Brooklyn  Times. 

Robert  Grant. 

FACE  TO  FACE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cents;  cloth,  $1.25.) 

"  This  is  a  well-told  story,  the  interest  of  which  turns  upon  a  game 
of  cross  purposes  between  an  accomplished  English  girl,  posing  as  a 
free  and  easy  American  Daisy  Miller,  and  an  American  gentleman, 
somewhat  given  to  aping  the  manners  of  the  English." — The 
Buffalo  Express. 

Edward  Everett  Hale. 

PHILIP  NOLAN'S  FRIENDS.     Illustrated  (I2mo,  $1.75). 

"There  is  no  question,  we  think,  that  this  is  Mr.  Kale's  com- 
pletest  and  best  novel.  The  characters  are  for  the  most  part  well 
drawn,  and  several  of  them  are  admirable." — The  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Marion  Harland. 

JUDITH:  A  Chronicle  of  Old  Virginia.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00) 
—HANDICAPPED  (I2mo,  $1.50). 

"  Fiction  has  afforded  no  more  charming  glimpses  of  old  Virginia 
life  than  are  found  in  this  delightful  story,  with  its  quaint  pictures, 
its  admirably  drawn  characters,  its  wit,  and  its  frankness." — The 
Brooklyn  Daily  Times. 

Joel  Chandler  Harris. 

FREE  JOE,  and  Other  Georgian  Sketches.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  The  author's  skill  as  a  story  writer  has  never  been  more  felic- 
itously illustrated  than  in  this  volume.  The  title  story  is  meagre 
almost  to  baldness  in  incident,  but  its  quaint  humor,  its  simple  but 
broadly  outlined  characters,  and,  above  all,  its  touching  pathos, 
combine  to  make  it  a  masterpiece  of  its  kind." —  The  New  York  Sun. 

Augustus  Allen  Hayes. 

JHE  JESUITS   RING.     A  Romance  of  Mount  Desert  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
cloth,  $1.00). 

"The  conception  of  the  story  is  excellent.  It  indicates  a  scholarly 
research,  a  sensitiveness  to  artistic  literary  effect,  and  a  fine  power 
of  selection  in  material." — The  Boston  Traveller. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.          5 

E.  T.  W.  Hoffmann. 

WEIRD  TALES.     With  Portrait  (I2mo,  2  vols.,  $3.00). 

"  Hoffmann  knew  how  to  construct  a  ghost  story  quite  as  skilfully 
as  Poe,  and  with  a  good  deal  more  sense  of  reality.  All  those  who 
are  in  search  of  a  genuine  literary  sensation,  or  who  care  for  the 
marvelous  and  supernatural,  will  find  these  two  volumes  fascinating 

/  reading." — The  Christian  Union. 

Dr.  J.  G.  Holland. 

SEVEN   OAKS— THE    BAY    PATH— ARTHUR   BON NICASTLE— MISS  GIL- 
BERT'S CAREER— NICHOLAS  MINTURN. 

Each,  i2mo,  $1.25  ;   the  set,  $6.25. 

"  Dr.  Holland  will  always  find  a  congenial  audience  in  the  homes 
of  culture  and  refinement.  He  does  not  affect  the  play  of -the  darker 
and  fiercer  passions,  but  delights  in  the  sweet  images  that  cluster 
around  the  domestic  hearth.  He  cherishes  a  strong  fellow-feeling 
with  the  pure  and  tranquil  life  in  the  modest  social  circles  of  the 
American  people,  and  has  thus  won  his  way  to  the  companionship 
of  many  friendly  hearts." — The  New  York  Tribune. 

Thomas  A.  Janvier. 

COLOR  STUDIES.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  Piquant,  novel,  and  ingenious,  these  little  stories,  with  all  their 
simplicity,  have  excited  a  wide  interest.  The  best  of  them,  '  Jaune 
D'Antimoine,'  is  a  little  wonder  in  its  dramatic  effect,  its  ingenious 
construction." — The  Critic. 

Virginia  W.  Johnson. 

THE  FAINALLS  OF  TIPTON.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  The  plot  is  good,  and  in  its  working-out  original.  Character 
drawing  is  Miss  Johnson's  recognized  forte,  and  her  pen-sketches  of 
the  inventor,  the  checker-playing  clergyman  and  druggist,  the 
rising  young  doctor,  the  sentimental  painter,  the  rival  grocers,  etc. , 
are  quite  up  to  her  best  work." — The  Boston  Commonwealth, 

Lieut.  J.  D.  J.  Kelley. 

A  DESPERATE  CHANCE.     (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;   cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  novel  is  of  the  good  old-fashioned,  exciting  kind.  Though 
it  is  a  sea  story,  all  the  action  is  not  on  board  ship.  There  is  a 
well-developed  mystery,  and  while  it  is  in  no  sense  sensational, 
readers  may  be  assured  that  they  will  not  be  tired  out  by  analytical 
descriptions,  nor  will  they  find  a  dull  page  from  first  to  last." — The 
Brooklyn  Union. 

The  King's  Men: 

A  TALE  OF  TO-MORROW.     By  Robert  Grant,  John  Boyle  O'Reilly,  J.  3., 
of  Dale,  and  John  T.  Wheelwright.    (I2mo,  $1.25.) 


6         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

Andrew  Lang. 

THE  MARK  OF  CAIN.     (I2mo.  paper,  25  cts.:   cloth,  75  cts.) 

"  No  one  can  deny  that  it  is  crammed  as  full  of  incident  as  it  will 
hold,  or  that  the  elaborate  plot  is  worked  out  with  most  ingenious 
perspicuity." — The  Saturday  Review, 

George  P.  Lathrop. 

NEWPORT.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— AN  ECHO  OF  PASSION. 
(I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— IN  THE  DISTANCE.  (I2mo,  paper, 
50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  It  is  one  of  the  charms  of  Mr.  Lathrop's  style  that  it  appeals  to 
the  imagination  of  the  reader  by  a  delicate  suggestiveness,  which 
lies  like  a  fine  atmosphere  over  the  landscape  of  the  story.  His 
novels  have  the  refinement  of  motive  which  characterize  the  analytical 
school,  but  his  manner  is  far  more  direct  and  dramatic." — The 
Christian  Union. 

Brander  Matthews. 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.; 
cloth,  $1.00)— THE  LAST  MEETING.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— 
IN  PARTNERSHIP.  With  H.  C.  Bunner  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"  Mr.  Matthews  is  a  man  of  wide  observation  and  of  much 
familiarity  with  the  world.  His  literary  style  is  bright  and  crisp, 
with  a  peculiar  sparkle  about  it — wit  and  humor  judiciously  mingled — 
which  renders  his  pages  more  than  ordinarily  interesting," — The 
Rochester  Post-Express. 

Donald  G.  Mitchell. 

DR.  JOHNS.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  The  author  finds  scenes  and  characters  enough  in  a  single  parish 
to  furnish  the  staple  of  the  book.  There  are  capital  descriptions  of 
parish  life,  home  scenes,  love-making,  hard  cases,  and  saintly  men 
and  women,  their  ways,  habits  ;  in  short,  all  the  warp  and  woof 
going  to  make  the  texture  of  this  isolated  rural  life.  There  are  few 
writers  in  this  country  who  have  ever  surpassed  the  author  in  the 
description  of  rural  New  England  life." — The  San  Francisco 
Bulletin. 

Fit^-James  O'Brien. 

THE  DIAMOND  LENS,  with  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.00.) 

"  These  stories  are  the  only  things  in  literature  to  be  compared 
with  Poe's  works,  and  if  they  do  not  equal  it  in  workmanship,  they 
certainly  do  not  yield  to  it  in  originality." —  The  Philadelphia  Record. 


SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION.         7 

Thomas  Nelson  Page. 

IN  OLE  VIRGINIA— MARSE  CHAN,  and  Other  Stones.     (I2mo,  $1.25.) 

"  There  are  qualities  in  these  stories  of  Mr.  Page  which  we  do 
not  find  in  those  of  any  other  Southern  author,  or  not  to  the  same 
extent  and  in  the  same  force — and  they  are  the  qualities  which  are 
too  often  wanting  in  modern  literature." — JV.  Y.  Mail  and  Express. 

Howard  Pyle. 

WITHIN  THE  CAPES.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  Simplicity,  earnestness,  and  directness  are  the  appropriate 
qualities  of  a  tale  supposed  to  be  reeled  by  an  old  sea  captain  as  he 
sits  by  the  chimney  corner,  stranded  in  a  happy  old  age.  The  yarn 
proves  to  possess  all  the  wonderful  elements  of  romance  and  adven- 
ture. " —  The  Boston  Journal, 

Saxe  Holm's  Stories. 

FIRST  SERIES.-Draxy  Miller's  Dowry— The  Elder's  Wife-Whose  Wife 
Was  She?— The  One-Legged  Dancers— How  One  Woman  Kept  Her  Husband 
— Esther  Wynn's  Love  Letters. 

SECOND  SERIES.— Four-Leaved  Clover— Farmer  Batsett's  Romance— My 
Tourmalene — Jos  Hale's  Red  Stocking— Susan  Lawton's  Escape. 

Each,  izmo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"Saxe  Holm's'  characters  are  strongly  drawn,  and  she  goes  right  to 
the  heart  of  human  experience  as  one  who  knows  the  way.  We 
heartily  commend  them  as  vigorous,  wholesome,  and  sufficiently 
exciting  stories." — The  Advance, 

Julia  Scbayer. 

TIGER  LILY,  and  Other  Stories.     (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  Each  of  the  fine  short  stories  in  the  present  collection  is  original 
in  subject  and  unique  in  treatment,  and  the  story  of  '  Tiger  Lily  '  is, 
in  its  way,  short  as  it  is,  a  masterpiece." — The  Critic, 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

STRANGE  CASE  OF  DR.  JEKYLL  AND  MR:  HYDE.  (I2mo,  paper,  25 
cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— KIDNAPPED.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00, 
illustrated,  JI.25)  -THE  MERRY  MEN,  and  Other  Tales  and  Fables.  (I2mo, 
paper,  35  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— NEW  ARABIAN  NIGHTS.  (I2mo.  paper, 
30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00)— THE  DYNAMITER.  With  Mrs.  Stevenson  (I2mo, 
paper,  30  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00). 

"  If  there  is  any  writer  of  the  time  about  whom  the  critics  of 
England  and  America  substantially  agree  it  is  Mr.  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson.  There  is  something  in  his  work,  precisely  what,  it  is 
not  easy  to  say,  which  engages  and  fixes  the  attention  from  the  first 
page  to  the  last,  which  shapes  itself  before  the  mind's  eye  while 
reading,  and  which  refuses  to  be  forgotten  long  after  the  book  which 
revealed  it  has  been  closed  and  put  away." — The  New  York  Mail 
and  Express, 


8         SCRIBNER'S    BRIEF    LIST    OF    FICTION. 

/.  5.,  of  Dale. 

GUERNDALE.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  CRIME  OF  HENRY 
VANE.  (I2mo,  $1.00)— THE  SENTIMENTAL  CALENDAR.  Head  Pieces 
by  F.  G.  Atiwood  (I2mo,  $2.00). 

"  The  author  of  that  very  bright,  witty,  and  audacious  story, 
'Guerndale,'  has  written  another,  'The  Crime  of  Henry  Vane,' 
which  is  just  as  witty  in  many  of  its  chapters  and  has  more  of  a 
'  purpose'  in  its  whole  structure.  No  young  novelist  in  this  country 
seems  better  equipped  than  Mr.  Stimson  is.  He  shows  unusual  gifts 
in  this  and  in  his  other  stories." — The  Philadelphia  Bulletin. 

Frank  R.  Stockton. 

RUDDER  GRANGE.  (I2mo,  paper,  60  cts.:  cloih,  $1.25;  illustrated  by  A.  B. 
Frost,  Sq.  I2mo,  $2.00)— THE  LATE  MRS.  NULL.  (I2mo,  $1-25)— THE 
LADY,  OR  THE  TIGER?  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth, 
$1.25)— THE  CHRISTMAS  WRECK,  and  Other  Stories.  (I2mo,  paper,  50 
cts.;  cloth,  $1.25)— THE  BEE-MAN  OF  ORN,  and  Other  Fanciful  Tales. 
(I2mo,  cloth,  $1.25.) 

"  Of  Mr.  Stockton's  stories  what  is  there  to  say,  but  that  they 
are  an  unmixed  blessing  and  delight  ?  He  is  surely  one  of  the  most 
inventive  of  talents,  discovering  not  only  a  new  kind  in  humor  and 
fancy,  but  accumulrting  an  inexhaustible  wealth  of  details  in  each 
fresh  achievement,  the  least  of  which  would  be  riches  from  another 
hand." — W.  D.  HOWELLS,  in  Harpers  Magazine. 

Stories  by  American  Authors. 

Cloth,  i6mo,  joe.  each;  set,  10  vols.,  fj'.oo/  cabinet ed.,  insetsonly,  $7.50. 
Circulars  describing  the  seties  sent  on  application  to  the  publishers. 

"  The  public  ought  to  appreciate  the  value  of  this  series,  which 
is  preserving  permanently  in  American  literature  short  stories  that 
have  contributed  to  its  advancement.  American  writers  lead  all 
others  in  this  form  of  fiction,  and  their  best  work  appears  in  these 
volumes." — The  Boston  Globe. 

T.  R.  Sullivan. 

ROSES  OF  SHADOW.    (I2mo,  $1.00.) 

"  The  characters  of  the  story  have  a  remarkable  vividness  and 
individuality — every  one  of  them — which  mark  at  once  Mr.  Sullivan's 
strongest  promise  as  a  novelist.  All  of  his  men  are  excellent.  John 
Musgrove,  the  grimly  pathetic  old  beau,  sometimes  reminds  us  of  a 
touch  of  Thackeray." — The  Cincinnati  Times-Star. 

John  T.  Wheelwright. 

A  CHILD  OF  THE  CENTURY.    (I2mo,  paper,  50  cts.;  cloth,  $1.00.) 

"  This  is  one  of  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  novels  that  has 
been  published  for  a  long  time.  It  is  a  story  of  to-day,  of  American 
life  and  character ;  a  typical  story  of  political  and  social  life,  free 
from  cynicism  or  morbid  realism,  and  brimming  over  with  good- 
natured  fun,  which  is  never  vulgar. " —  The  Christian  at  Work, 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGION* 


A    000104458     5 


